Like Amber, Like Oil
by Domini Porter
Summary: Sequel to "Blood Memory": Bella's back, and she is *pissed off.* You can read this one without reading the other, but I promise it will be difficult to follow. Bring a flashlight 'cause it's super-dark! Ginny/Hermione/Bellatrix. Femmeslash. Obviously.
1. Chapter 1

She thudded to the ground with a pained grunt. The sweet smell of grass mingled with sweat and dirt and filled her with a calm, familiar happiness. She shook out gingerly, testing her body against the force of the impact. She stretched her legs tight in front of her and stood, pushing her arms high into the air, shaking it off. The long smoothness of her limbs, the subtle musculature rippling there, filled her with pride. She was already noticeably taller than her mother, almost as tall as her brother. Better at most things than him, she thought as he scrambled to retrieve the Quaffle.

"All right?" he called from the brush.

"Fine," she shouted back. Spotting the other girl through the window she brushed halfheartedly at a ground-in patch of grass and dirt on her shoulder.

He found the rogue ball and sent it sailing back over the yard. Without thinking she swung onto her broom, kicked up and caught the Quaffle as it barreled toward the kitchen window.

"Nice save!" her brother said, trotting up to her. She shrugged. "Maybe if you'd spend as much time practicing it as you do reading about it, you'd not have fucked it up in the first place," she grinned.

"Bloody hell, Gin," he spat on the ground. "You don't have to be such a bitch about it."

"Ronald Weasley, we have discussed your language." The back door had swung open and a small, plump woman was standing just outside, her hands firmly planted on her hips.

"But mum, she said--"

"Quidditch practice is over," Mrs. Weasley said definitively. "Get back in the house and get cleaned up, both of you. Supper is nearly ready. Oh Ginny, you look dreadful. Why does it have to be Quidditch?" She rubbed at a spot on Ginny's face, the girl pulling away with a tolerant groan. "Why can't you be keen on studying like Hermione?"

"Because Dad would be heartbroken if he only had one champion player in the family, Mum, you know he would. And Ronald is clearly a lost cause." She stuck her tongue out at him playfully.

"Do you see what I put up with?" Ron was collecting his broom. "And you let her get away with it, that's the real crime."

"Wash up," Mrs. Weasley commanded. "Change your shirts. I will not have you looking like a pair of trolls in front of company."

"It's just Hermione," Ron muttered. "She doesn't care."

A faint blush washed over Ginny. Hermione might not care, and it was likely she didn't even notice, but Ginny was always sure to scrub the dirt off her face and hands with extra attention when the girl was staying with them. Ginny wasn't worried about how she would feel about Quidditch itself given her friend's taste in dates, but she always took special care to appear clean and polished around her.

As polished as she could, she thought, examining her face in the mirror. Her reflection wore a vaguely shocked expression as though it was horrified that she should get so dirty, and from playing outside, at her age. "Sod off," she muttered as she tried to work a comb through her hair. Twigs and leaves collected at her feet, markers of countless dives into the brush to save Ron's haphazard throws. She pulled off her sweaty, muddy clothes and regarded her body. A deep green stain on her elbow and shoulder. Splotches of brown dirt on her neck, her thin collarbones, one on her stomach (her stomach?). She turned and looked at herself more closely, ignoring the grass and grime. She was tall, slender, developing long, ropy muscles in her arms and legs, her stomach taut, her breasts high and rounded softly against the faint xylophone of her ribs pressing at the skin of her torso.

She skimmed her fingers over her body, investigating. She had always seen herself as a little girl, the youngest, not a person, really, just The Girl Weasley, or, even worse, The Weasley Girl. Recent forays into dating had proven that she was more than the long-haired tagalong to a gang of boys, but it hadn't proven anything to _her_. So when she caught glimpses of herself in the mirror she often found herself surprised, curious. _This is what a girl's body looks like_.

Ginny was standing there, her fingers running up and down her chest, down to her hips, mapping the topography of her body when the door swung open abruptly and Hermione burst in.

"Ginny—oh," she said, her breath catching slightly. Ginny raised her arms to cover herself quickly, trying to appear nonchalant. Hermione was silent for a fraction of a second before continuing. "Your mum wants to know what's taking so long, says supper has been on the table for ages. It's not even all out yet, but she's . . . well . . ."

"She's Mum," Ginny said genially, forcing the blush down.

"Right. I'll . . . I'll just go and tell her you're coming, then." Hermione darted out the door and down the steps.

Ginny stood at the sink, gooseflesh rising on her skin. She breathed slowly, deliberately. Embarrassment washed over her, hot waves of it crashing down. But mingled with that mortification a different heat, thin and sharp and heavy, a thunderbolt from the back of her head straight down between her legs.

Air dragged into her lungs in shallow swallows. The heat between her legs liquefied as she thought about that half-second pause, thought about Hermione looking at the expanse of her skin, the rounded _oh_ in her mouth, more a sigh than an exclamation, that pause—

"Ginevra! Now!" Her mother's shriek sliced through Ginny's reverie. She scrubbed hastily at the stains on her skin and pulled on a clean shirt and new pair of trousers. She gave a brief, mournful sigh at the tangle of hair and slicked it back with her hands into a ponytail, trying to hide the snarls and errant bits of vegetation.

At the table, Ron was shoveling food into his mouth faster than he could chew it. Half-masticated bits of beef fell to his plate, mingling with a mountain of potatoes nearly submerged in a lake of gravy.

"Honestly, Ron," Hermione chided. "You eat like an ogre." He looked up, wounded. Turned pleadingly to his mother, who was nodding approvingly at Hermione. "How do you put up with it, Ginny?"

"At least one person in this house has been eating like that since before I was born," she said. "It just becomes part of the landscape." Ginny shrugged and sat next to her, feeling a peculiar boldness. It wasn't out of the ordinary for Ginny to sit with Hermione with the girl visited, but tonight it was different. It felt slightly dangerous to be sitting next to her, like they had a secret. With that feeling, Ginny realized that Hermione's half-second pause hadn't been coincidental. She couldn't help blushing then, the scarlet blooming on her cheeks.

"Are you all right, dear?" her mother asked. "You've gone red."

"Oh—I'm, I'm fine, Mum. Just a little flushed . . . from practice."

"Well, eat up. I'm sure you're ravenous as well."

Ginny had been quite hungry, but suddenly she was sure she couldn't eat anything. The feeling of Hermione there, the atmosphere charged slightly, Hermione stiff beside her, like she was trying to keep herself from reaching over and—

"Pass the butter, would you?" Ron poked Ginny's arm. She rolled her eyes.

"Ronald, it's exactly as far from you as it is from me. Get it yourself."

As he opened his mouth to retort, a half-chewed pea dropping to the plate with a _ping_, Hermione picked up the butter dish. As she was passing it to Ron, Ginny sighed heavily and reached for it without noticing. Their fingers brushed barely, Ginny quickly snatching the dish before Hermione dropped it. She set it down in front of Ron. "Say thank you," she said.

"Thanks, Ginny," Ron mumbled. "Thanks, Hermione."

"Like an animal," Ginny sighed. She turned to Hermione, who was rubbing her finger feverishly with her thumb. She watched the girl for a moment, until Hermione realized she was expected to speak. She cleared her throat, and said too loudly, "When will Mr. Weasley be home, Mrs. Weasley?"

"I don't know, my dear. Any time, I expect. Though it has been getting later and later at the office. What with all of the goings-on, you know. Which reminds me, I want all of you packed up by tomorrow afternoon. We've got to be in London by seven, and I don't want any delay."

"Yes, Mum," Ron and Ginny said in unison. Hermione nodded.

After dinner, Ron disappeared into his bedroom to read back issues of _Quidditch Quarterly_. Ginny and Hermione helped Mrs. Weasley with the dishes. Mr. Weasley came in as they were putting away the last of the pots, leaning down to kiss his wife on the head. He ruffled Ginny's hair and gave Hermione's hand a courtly shake, but did not say much. Things at the Ministry were not going smoothly, the death of Barty Crouch had shaken the atmosphere severely, and the reasons behind it, while vehemently denied by the highest powers, were common knowledge among Ministry staff. Paranoia was mounting, fear and suspicion. Mr. Weasley knew far more about the matters being discussed than he let on, but for a multitude of reasons kept quiet, both at work and at home.

As Mrs. Weasley prepared him a plate, Ginny and Hermione retreated to Ginny's bedroom. They sat on Ginny's bed, quiet for a beat.

"I saw you practicing, you're really good," Hermione said finally.

"Thanks," Ginny replied, a touch awkwardly.

"I mean, you're definitely good enough to play for Gryffindor."

"That's my plan."

"Good."

"Good."

They were silent again, the weight of that faint secret pressing on them. Ginny felt the heat begin to flare in her belly again as she thought of Hermione looking at her, the girl's eyes large as she took in Ginny's nakedness. _That half-pause_.

"I'd better start packing," Hermione said suddenly and leapt off the bed. "Don't want your mum upset with me."

"Don't worry about her," Ginny smiled. "She'd never yell at someone who does so well at Potions."

"I wish I had your Charms skill," Hermione sighed. "You're very talented at it."

"You're just as good as me. Better, probably."

"Oh no," Hermione said forcefully. "You've got natural ability."

"Well . . . thanks?" Ginny replied. Hermione was standing very near her, bringing that secret with her, holding it up in front of her in a sealed envelope. The liquid tremor spread through Ginny's body, a delicate nervousness in her limbs, her mouth drying slightly as Hermione looked into her eyes. Another brief, heavy pause and she had turned around again and was neatly folding her things into her trunk.

Ginny watched her leaning from the cot piled with her belongings over to the trunk. Admiring the smooth line of her body as she bent over the trunk, the patch of skin above her jeans where the hem of her shirt pulled up. Fizzing sparks raced through Ginny, carrying the heat across her skin. _This is what a girl's body looks like_. Her whole life Ginny had only seen the long hard lines of boys' bodies, the sexless straight planes of her brothers, the flatness of their chests, their hips, their uninteresting profiles. The mystery of a girl's body was tangible to her; she could see her own but had nothing to compare it to. Hermione's body, with its developing fluidity, was tantalizing in its nearness, in its sameness, its difference to anything Ginny had ever seen. She wanted to reach out and touch that spot, the smooth pale spot above her waist, the buttons of vertebrae pushing up just slightly. Ginny wanted to run her fingers over those tiny hills, the soft plains of her back, to see if it felt the same as her own skin. She wanted to touch Hermione to see what a girl's body felt like. She wanted to do it to feel that pulsing heat blossom and spread.

Hermione was tucking the last of her clothes into the trunk, back to Ginny, when Ron slammed into the room. "Bloody Cannons," he roared. "Gave up the Snitch to those bloody Harpies. They could've had it, too, only twenty points down in the end. Why they let the men's and women's teams play against each other I'll never know."

"Probably to prove girls are better at Quidditch," Ginny snickered.

"Oh fuck off, Ginny."

"Charming, Ron," Hermione muttered, snapping the lid closed with a click. "It's only one game, and it doesn't count in the championships."

He stared at her. "I didn't think you cared about Quidditch, Hermione."

She blushed slightly. "I've taken an interest."

"Krum's being signed up probably didn't hurt," he said, an edge to his voice.

"No, it didn't, but there are other reasons a person can get interested in something, Ronald."

His face twisted in a half-grimace. "Whatever."

"Did you need something, Ron?" Ginny asked.

"Oh, right," he mumbled, digging in his pocket. "Mum wanted me to give you this."

He held out a folded scrap of paper. Ginny took it with trepidation; notes from Mrs. Weasley were rarely good news. She unfolded it and groaned at the spidery exhortation to make sure she packed enough underclothes. "Why can't she just _tell_ me these things?" she moaned.

"Because Mum can't say the word "pants" without breaking into hysterics, you know her."

Ginny sighed. "Thank you." She stared at him expectantly for a beat, waiting for him to leave. "_Thank_ you, Ron," she said again, louder.

"Oh—right," he said, and tromped out the door.

"How did you manage to survive, Ginny? I mean, six brothers!"

She shrugged. "I learned to play sports. And swear creatively, and I could fight Ron and Percy by the time I was eight."

Hermione giggled and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Ginny was captivated by the delicate shell-colored flesh, the scalloped edge of her ear, the softness of her earlobe, the long slope of her neck. _This is what a girl's body looks like_. She wanted to stare at Hermione for hours, to examine her carefully, to measure the girl's flesh against her own. She wanted to stroke that tender throat carefully, to run her fingers along its hollow, down the fall of her chest, across the swell of her breasts, just to see what it would feel like. Ginny's imaginary charting reignited the ember low in her belly, the map of Hermione's body was the map of a strange continent, dark and mysterious. Ginny wanted to feel all of it, to explore it, to possess Hermione with her hands and understand a girl's body better than she understood a boy's.

"Ginny?" Hermione said, almost a whisper, almost hoarsely. Ginny blinked rapidly, terrified that Hermione had divined her thoughts.

"Um, yeah?"

"Do you—do you think—do you think you could--"

The door swung open again, Mr. Weasley filling the frame. Ginny jumped, then sighed. Always interrupted. She'd never known a peaceful evening in her life. She was faintly glad for her father's intrusion, however, since she wasn't sure she wanted to hear what Hermione was going to ask her.

"Heard you creamed Ron out there, Puddle."

"Sure did, Dad. He nearly broke the kitchen window, but I saved it."

"That's my girl. And how's Hermione, then?"

Hermione smiled. "Just fine, Mr. Weasley."

"Getting all packed up for the trip?"

"Nearly finished," she said, pointing at her trunk.

Mr. Weasley smiled and chucked Ginny on the arm. "Wish you could be around more, Hermione. Teach my wild ones a thing or two."

Ginny nearly choked. Hermione blushed.

"I wish I could too, Mr. Weasley. I love it here."

He looked at her approvingly, then stepped farther into the room, his face grave. "Girls," he said seriously. "I wanted to make sure you knew how important it is that you stick together. We're going to a safe place, but the things we're facing are quite dangerous. I need your word that you'll look out for each other."

"Of course," Ginny cut in. "I mean—that is, yes, we'll make sure."

"Absolutely," Hermione added, throwing a sideways glance at Ginny that made her flush.

"Good." He rubbed his hands together briskly, his voice brighter. "Well, have a good night, you two. See you in the morning."

"'Night, Dad," Ginny called after him. The door clicked shut. Ginny went to it and turned the lock. "No more uninvited guests," she said wryly. Hermione gave a wan half-smile. Tension crept back into the atmosphere. Ginny felt the peculiar boldness rising in her, carried up on the billowing heat that was filling her body. "You were going to ask me something?"

Hermione gaped for a moment, then shook her head and turned away. "It's nothing," she mumbled. "I'm exhausted, aren't you? And we've got to get up early tomorrow to finish getting ready. I think I'll turn in," and she was on her cot, facing the wall.

Ginny settled into her own bed, trembling with warm pleasure. As she drifted into sleep she saw herself like a Muggle explorer, khaki vest and trousers, long sharp knife, cutting through dense jungle to find Hermione, stretched naked across a glittering stone altar. As the half-dream Hermione raised her head and held out her hand to Ginny, sleep dropped on her like a heavy curtain and the image disappeared.


	2. Chapter 2

_Bella, Bella I love you_.

A low whisper, sweet and serpentine, gliding over, under her skin. The heat of it not reaching the surface, cold marble flesh glowing white under its coat of earth.

_Bella_

Growing louder, pulsing hard through her, filling her head, her body. The voice turning dark, turning red, washing over her, she could taste it like a mouthful of blood. It was colder, harsher, cruel and sibilant, writhing through her veins, winding around her, constricting her.

_Bella_

It roared in her ears now, high and fierce. She twitched. The voice was screaming at her, drowning her in its thick red rush. She moaned and tried to turn, heavy irons twisting at her wrists, her ankles. The resistance of the chain cut through the voice still shrieking at her, and her wide, preternaturally bright eyes snapped open.

The flesh under the manacles was so destroyed it no longer bled. The thick iron cuffs rubbed on scar, on rawness, on bone. Bellatrix no longer felt them; the pain no longer came. After years of imprisonment she no longer felt anything on her skin, her body distant, dead. All that made Bellatrix remember she was alive was the voice, constant, thrumming everywhere. When she was awake the voice was His, smooth and threatening, powerful, sexual, licking at her ears, biting at her, sliding sinister, languid through her brain, whispering secrets to her, promising her glory, the palpable yearning for His presence given subtle promise of satisfaction by His voice, and she strained against her bonds, aching to break free and go to Him. Dried blood tracked down her hands and feet, she had been pushing so hard against her chains for so long, so many years of desperate yearning for Him, for His presence, His power, that they were stained deep red.

Her arm pulsed and writhed with the Mark, the snake-tongue lapping at her flesh, the icy coldness of it twisting, undulating beneath her skin. He was growing stronger, He was returning, He would remember her, He would look at her years spent waiting for Him, crying out His name, and He would accept it as her punishment and allow her to sit at His side once more.

When she slept it was the girl's voice, and her dreams were dreams of the girl. Vague, insubstantial, flashes of red, of green, warmth sliding up her body like smoke. The girl's face had faded, her features obscured by long-developing madness. She was a blur across Bellatrix's mind, her name forgotten but the hard pull of her blood still raging through Bella's veins. The physical girl was only a fogged impression now, but the feeling of her tore at Bella, ripped her apart, the girl's heavy blood settling under her own but always present, always calling to her.

Years before she had been much clearer, Bellatrix could still feel the girl's fingers on her, stroking her cool skin, the girl's mouth on her own, the heat of it still crackling though her body. She could remember them together, twisting limbs, fingers woven through hair, the rushing, crashing pressure, the sensation of drowning as the girl's lips and tongue sent her into spiraling orgasm. How she had laid the girl out, arms bound above her head, the girl's eyes closed, Bellatrix kneeling between her legs drawing her fingernails across the girl's skin, raising bright red lines on her white flesh. How she had writhed, moaned when Bella bit at her, when Bella sucked the blood from her lip, the heat of her sex around Bella's fingers, mouth, the whimpers, the cries the girl made, the agony and dark need in her voice as she screamed Bella's name.

Now all she knew was the deep feeling of the girl's blood in her body, her memories shattered by His voice, when she was awake she thought only of the dirt in her veins, the impurity, the unworthiness of her blood. His voice would twist around her then, hissing insults and insinuations, but never leaving her, promising her that the sacrifice of her blood had been worthy, had been made out of devotion to Him. In her sleep the girl was muddy and faint, her voice often thin, almost inaudible, but sometimes it would grow strong, tangible, and her body would respond, flushing with warmth. Sometimes her dreams were unbearably clear, but senseless. Bellatrix could not identify the girl in the dreams, she was always turned away from her, walking just beyond her reach, and Bella would look down, the ground beneath her turning liquid, turning red, the girl's voice echoing across every part of her, and the girl was stepping into a vast red sea, her knees, her hips, her breasts, her voice swelling and rippling, the flash of bright hair brilliant against the matte gleam of the sea, and she would turn, slowly, a wrenching pull at Bella's core as if she were drawing her in on a long cord, the girl would turn to her, guiding her to the waves, Bella would see the piercing green of her eyes, the words urgent, undulating, making the air ripple—

_Bella, Bella I love you_

--and before Bellatrix could see her face she would dive deep beneath the surface, pulling hard on the cord between them, Bellatrix rushing forward, the voice turning loud, angry, violent, and she would stop, caught on something invisible, something cold and sharp, the tug at her center becoming painful, unbearable, the voice roaring and pounding around her—

_This is what happens when you disobey me._

She would wake, confused by the image of a featureless girl drifting silently in a red sea, hair billowing around her.

His voice was only furious when she had the dream. The girl's voice was only clear when she had the dream, otherwise it was a low, murmuring counterpoint to the dark violence that cluttered her mind as she slept.

The years made her raw, all bone and crackling nerve, the years ate away at her beauty, leaving her emaciated, her cheeks deep hollows, her skin tight across her cheekbones, her eyes black embers burning in her ravaged face. Fingers spider-thin, the manacles shrinking to fit as her flesh was stripped by time, the threads of veins trembling as her blood circled His voice through her body.

_Bella_

The hiss had been ever-present, but it had gradually swelled, becoming more powerful, louder, harder. She could feel His cold breath on her cheek, the faint flick of His tongue as her name rolled through the air in His voice. _He was coming. He was coming for her._ She raised her chained arm and traced the Mark with her tongue, its urgent wriggle shivering through her. _He was coming for her. My Lord, I am ready._

She slept less and less, her dreams fragmented, obscure. A silver knife tipped with blood, a curving _B_ drawn in the air, a figure always at the edge of her vision, trailing a corona of red. The girl's voice, unbearably loud, making her ache in ways that were more painful than the tortures of her imprisonment, aching in places not even the dementors could touch, places so black and endless that looking into them amplified her fever-pitch insanity. Bellatrix was terrified of that blackness, it was not the rich, intoxicating blackness of Him, not suffused with power. The blackness that hid the girl was cold, suffocating, annihilating. Bellatrix knew, even through her madness, that the girl was behind it, standing just at the end of that passage, waiting for her. When she slept it began to infect her dreams, drifting in like a fog, the chaos of her mind being swallowed in black, the girl calling her, being pulled so close to it, to the emptiness. Her few moments of lucidity came then, when she was dreaming, the entirety of her failure, of the destruction of everything she knew, the destruction of the person she had come so close to loving absolutely, and she woke screaming.

As long as she stayed awake, as long as His voice supported her, held her upright, held her eyes open, she could vanish under the cloak of madness. As long as He was with her she forgot about the girl, about the crushing grief.

As long as the Mark continued to pulse under her skin she knew He would come for her, would release her. He would allow her to use her rage, her fury, to open the deep well of hatred that had been steadily rising in her. He would allow her to kill again in His name.

She laughed softly to herself, a metallic, alien sound. Her throat unaccustomed to anything but screaming, working to adjust itself to the cold, high shrieks of laughter that ripped out of her, her mad keening reverberating off the stone walls of her cell. _Allow her to kill. Allow her to have her vengeance. Allow her to find the boy for Him. _

The boy.

Bellatrix never let herself think about the boy. He had been the impetus behind all this destruction and grief; he had defeated her Lord, he had been responsible for the death of the girl. She knew her blood ran in his veins, but the knowledge only amplified her hatred. He had been meant for her Lord, a gift, a sacrifice, and his blood was still whole, was still hidden.

She would find him for her Lord. She would not kill him, but she would find him, deliver him.

The winds whipped and screamed around Azkaban. The temperature was dropping, the gale whistling even through the cracks around the door.

_His blood is owed You, my Lord. I will find him_.

A fine coat of dust rained down on her as the mortar shifted.

_I will bring him to you._

Heavy cracks split across the rocks of her cell.

_My Lord, I will come to you._

A thunderous crash as the walls fell away, the wind whipping at her, searing her raw, bloodstained skin. She felt it then, the cold fingers tearing at her, heard the sea far below pounding an unmistakable rhythm.

_Bella. Bella. Bella_.

She stood unsteadily and stumbled to the jagged platform that had once been a solid stone wall. Lifting her head high, blinded by even the dull light, she raised her hands and shrieked into the endless night.


	3. Chapter 3

**_A/N:_**_ When I originally wrote this story I realized I'd hopelessly muddled OotP and HBP with regards to Quidditch. So I've tried to fix it. It's a little un-canon but I think it's still at least a little plausible._

"Right here," Hermione was gesticulating toward a flashing picture on the front of the _Prophet_. "That's her."

"Bloody crazy bitch," Ron said, swagger in his words.

"Indeed," Hermione said, only half-listening. "Bellatrix Lestrange, it says. Cousin to Sirius Black? Harry, is this true?"

The dark-haired boy nodded. "Yeah, I saw her picture at headquarters. She looked just as crazy there."

"Give you a fright," Ron shuddered, and went back to his breakfast.

Ginny peered over Hermione's shoulder at the picture, leaning close to her to get a better look. Her hair swung forward and brushed Hermione's wrist, causing the girl to jerk slightly, elbowing Ginny.

"Oh, Ginny! I'm sorry!" Flustered, she tried to fold the paper and pat Ginny on the shoulder at the same time. She dropped the paper, and hit her head on Ginny's knee as she dove under the table to retrieve it.

Ginny put her hand on Hermione's shoulder as calmly as she could manage and helped the girl back into a sitting position. Ron snickered from across the table; Harry only held his hand out for the paper. Ginny handed it to him, trying to catch a glimpse of the dark-haired woman on the front. There was something about the woman's eyes, something lucid and malicious in spite of her mad silent screaming, that caught Ginny off-guard. The sudden jolt from the picture mingled with the flushed nervousness from her fumbling interaction with Hermione, a warm, tangled glow shot through with cold threads of a vague unease.

Harry threw the paper down with a grunt. "She'll be trouble," he said, the vaguely irritating knowingness in his voice grating Ginny slightly. She liked Harry, had been deeply in the throes of a schoolgirl crush only a year ago, but over the summer had grown tired of his modesty, his put-upon weariness. She knew he was going through things she couldn't imagine, but after a while even the whispers of saints got boring. Her eyes drifted to Hermione, who was furiously buttering a piece of toast. The other girl studiously avoided her gaze. They hadn't spent much time together since school had started; Ginny got the distinct impression that Hermione was avoiding her. Ginny had taken to hanging out with Dean Thomas and his friends, but grew weary, too, of their vacuousness. She was frustrated, searching for middle ground, someone who was serious, but not deadly so all the time. At first glance, Hermione seemed to lack any sense of fun, always wrapped up in books, homework, the latest political intrigues. But Ginny knew better; their long, often raucous talks over the summer revealed hidden facets of the other girl. She could be wickedly funny, scathing, even vulgar. And there had been that half-second in the bathroom—

"Practice. Ron, Ginny, we've got to get out there before someone else decides they want the field." Harry swallowed the last of his egg and stood up, shoving the paper out of his way. Ginny picked it up as she was leaving.

"Do you mind, Hermione? Only Harry's said I can fly with the team. Sort of a warmup for next season." she said. The girl shook her head and Ginny tucked the paper into her bag, the picture of Bellatrix Lestrange snarling up at her, those dark eyes flashing.

On the field, she mounted her broomstick and soared high into the air, searching for the glittering Snitch. Harry shouted orders from the pitch. She didn't like being the Seeker, would rather be a Chaser, would rather be a part of the rough physicality of jostling and scoring instead of the acrobatic dance of catching the Snitch. She wished she could be Katie Bell, graceful and solid on her broom, the strong snap of her arm as she threw the Quaffle through the hoops at the end of the field. But someone had to play Seeker while Harry dictated from below.

"Keep your eyes open, Ron!" Katie called as the ball sailed past him.

"I'm trying, aren't I?" he snapped back.

"Try harder!" She swooped down and caught the Quaffle before it hit the ground.

Ginny surveyed the vastness of the land below her. It stretched, open and wide under her, ridge of mountain tumbling into the iron-gray sea. The water flashed and glinted, far out dark clouds were gathering, flattening the expanse of gray into a dull metallic wash, rolling and sinister. Something in the way the water deadened under the clouds made her shiver; it was as though death were sweeping down to her, the vitality being sucked out the landscape. Something was descending on her, bearing down on her, she could feel an uncanny darkness approaching.

"Ginny! Wake up!" Harry yelled from the ground. She shook her head and did a quick flip in the air to prove she was sharp. She caught a glimpse of the Snitch on the far end of the field, hovering in the center of the opposing goal. She kicked hard and shot toward it, swooping low under the post and up around behind it, fingers straining to catch the tiny humming ball before it darted away. Her hand closed around it, it buzzed against her skin.

"Weasley's got it!" someone shouted. A smattering of cheers from the team, Ron looking surly but clapping anyway. As she landed gently and handed the Snitch to Harry, she saw Hermione standing on the edge of the field, clapping. "That was brilliant!" she called to Ginny, coming closer. Ginny felt that warm excitement in her bones as Hermione approached. _She had been watching_. The excitement blossomed and spread as Hermione threw her arms around Ginny in a breathless hug. For a moment, Hermione's warm cheek pressed against Ginny's cold one, and she could feel Hermione's breath stutter in her chest. Hermione released her quickly, stepping back and looking vaguely in another direction.

"Yes, excellent work, Ginny. Next time don't dawdle up there. You could've had it a good forty seconds earlier. And with the team Slytherin's putting together for next term, you'll need every second you can get."

She gave Harry a sloppy mock salute and grinned. "Aye aye, Captain."

"Who are you calling Captain?" Katie Bell walked up to her, punching her shoulder. They broke into laughter, Ginny throwing her head back. Suddenly, she froze. The heavy gray clouds were moving over them fast, the creeping feeling of death was sliding across the grass. It wasn't dementors, she didn't feel hopeless, she didn't feel anything. The death-feeling was total numbness, helplessness, apathy. It made her expressionless, cold, blank. It made her feel empty, though not in an awful, aching way. It was a dark readiness, the readiness of death approaching her.

"You okay, Gin?" Ron asked, poking her. She blinked rapidly and shook her head.

"Um—yeah. Just noticing those clouds, we ought to get in before it starts to rain."

"Good idea," Hermione said quickly, holding out Ginny's bag. "I brought this over for you," she said and sounded nearly shy.

"Thanks, Hermione!" Ginny said with slightly forced brightness. "Walk back with me?"

Hermione swallowed hard and nodded. As they began the walk back to the castle, Ron shouted after them.

"Hey, yeah, see you later, then!"

Ginny giggled and waved over her shoulder. "Ron can't stand being left out. It's a very useful tool to use against him."

Hermione smiled widely, her lips parting. Ginny tried hard not to lick her own in response, tried not to bite down on her lower lip and imagine it Hermione's. They walked silently for a moment, close but not touching, their free hands swinging side by side. Hermione still made her slightly nervous, but it was easier to be around her alone, which surprised her. She had thought that a crush of people surrounding them would make it easier, more distracting, but instead she found herself fighting the urge to stare at Hermione in a crowd, not to draw attention to herself by following the girl everywhere with her eyes. She couldn't speak to her with other people around; neither, did it seem, could Hermione. Ginny was certain Hermione was entertaining the same ideas as she was, and wondered if Hermione had ever imagined Ginny's mouth the way Ginny had imagined hers. If she had, she'd probably pushed it away. Ginny knew Hermione as a good friend, had spent many long nights talking about Viktor Krum, about various other boys, though thinking back on it, their conversations had always been speculative and insubstantial. Shadow-puppet conversations. But it did not matter if Hermione felt anything beyond friendship for Ginny; she was at heart a conservative girl. Accepting, but conservative.

Ginny, raised around a scrum of boys, always in trousers, always dirty, climbing trees and stealing her brothers' brooms to practice on, had never had much need to worry about what people thought of her. She often vanished into the background of daily life; her parents doted on her as the youngest and only girl but rarely did her gender have any effect on her existence. She became fascinated with girls, their smooth bodies, their light voices, their delicate sameness sending quivers through her since she could remember.

"You were really good out there," Hermione said after a while.

"Thanks," Ginny replied. Silence blanketed them again, heavy and charged.

They walked the rest of the way to the castle, pausing at the entrance. "I've got to change," Ginny said. "I must smell awful."

"No," Hermione said and blushed, adding quickly, "well, not _too _awful."

"Thanks, Hermione," she said, grinning. The girl turned to walk toward the library, and Ginny reached out and touched her lightly on the arm. "Thanks for coming to practice," she said softly. Hermione's eyes widened and she gulped. Ginny squeezed her arm gently. "Gives me something to look at while I wait for Ron to miss enough goals to make the game interesting."

Hermione flushed scarlet and looked at the ground. Ginny was speechless for a moment, hardly believing she'd said it. It was that boldness that thrummed through her, vague and inexplicable. She swallowed quickly. "Well—I've got to go change," she said a bit too loudly. Hermione mumbled something in response and fled down the hallway.

When Ginny was back in her dormitory she flopped down on her bed, her pulse racing. She'd said something that could have resulted in total failure, in total humiliating disappointment. Instead, Hermione had glowed red and been at a loss for words. Ginny trembled a bit on the bed, the warm rush between her legs flooding through her. Carefully she traced her stomach with her fingertips, the smoothness there, sliding her hand across the relief of her hips, brushing lightly across the apex of her legs, a glittering frisson of heat sparkling across her skin. She thought of that glimpse of Hermione's skin; she had seen the girl in far less, changing for bed, going swimming, but for some reason it was that moment that kept returning to her. That small, soft teaspoon of skin above the waist of her jeans, exposed for a moment as she leaned over to put something in her trunk. The secret of it, the vulnerable, exposed moment, Hermione unaware of Ginny's eyes on her, drinking in that patch of pale flesh. Ginny closed her eyes and imagined the skin beneath her fingertips as Hermione's, imagined herself running her hands over every part of Hermione's body, charting her, discovering her. Her flesh prickled as she slid her hands over it, chill in the evening air, hot at her center, slipping her fingers under the waist of her trousers, stroking herself as she thought about the round _oh_ pushing out of Hermione's mouth, that brief second when she stood before her, naked.

Ginny's hands moved unconsciously over her body. She knew exactly how to touch herself, had been surprised by her own dexterity. Part of her wanted Hermione to know how good she could make her feel, to impress Hermione with the intelligence of her fingers. She wanted the pleasure of Hermione's cries, the thrill of Hermione's body shuddering under her touch. She imagined the girl beneath her, Ginny's hands everywhere, her mouth on Hermione's, her tongue exploring Hermione's lips, teeth, nipping at her pale shell-colored ears, tracing her body, the girl writhing, her hands lost in Ginny's hair, Hermione pushing Ginny's head lower, lower, Hermione gasping Ginny's name—

As her orgasm drew close, as her breath became shallow, constricted, her hips moving to their own steady, thrusting rhythm, she suddenly felt that black emptiness tugging at her, the dark void swallowing the air around her, and faint behind it she saw the woman's face, Lestrange's face, with its heavy black eyes gleaming malevolently through the deepening shadows. The tangles of silvery coldness shot through her again, mixed with the onrushing, pulsing heat of her sex, the woman's crackling eyes staring out of Hermione's face, Hermione moaning, Hermione screaming, tightening around Ginny's fingers, the woman's fiery stare burning into her as she came, whimpering wordlessly.

Fortunately the dormitory was deserted. Ginny parted the heavy drapes and peered into the murky room, devoid of other students. She quickly grabbed some fresh clothes and darted into the bathroom, the hiss of steam from the shower reminding her in an unnamable way of Bellatrix Lestrange's eyes. She had the uncanny feeling of being watched, being anticipated. Her own anticipation surged through her body in response. The quivering for Hermione, the flat expectancy of whatever the dead gray of the water had promised, blended in her. Water sluiced down her skin, making her tingle. She quickly cleaned herself up and stepped out of the shower to towel off.

Hermione stood on the other side of the room. Ginny didn't try to cover herself this time, but didn't offer her body to the other girl's eyes. _Let her look_, she thought with a half-measure of perverse excitement, slightly surprising herself.

"Ginny--" Hermione's voice was strained, her eyes wide, her fingers twisting around themselves nervously.

"What's up?" she asked as nonchalantly as she could, pulling a towel from its nearby hook.

"I was . . . I was thinking--" the girl fumbled for words, her mouth working soundlessly. "I was thinking that--"

Ginny wrapped the towel around herself. Covering her body made Hermione relax slightly, the tension easing imperceptibly from her face. She stared at Ginny hard, her face blooming scarlet. Ginny was silent. She tucked the towel tightly and strode with a confidence she didn't know she was capable of across the cold tile to where Hermione was standing. She said nothing, only reached up and stroked Hermione's jaw with her thumb, pulling the other girl's mouth to hers.

The kiss lasted only a moment, only the briefest pressing of lips, and Hermione gasped and bolted from the room. Ginny stood frozen, her hair dripping cold down her back and puddling on the floor. Waves of feeling crashed over her, the dark heat between her legs, roaring confusion, the rough scrape of embarrassment, a slight twinge of victory. She knew Hermione would definitely avoid her for days, maybe weeks, Ginny could see quite clearly the girl darting out of whatever room Ginny entered, could hear her feebly protesting about needing the library, and she smiled. It would be a long time before she would get to kiss Hermione again, that was certain. But it had been worth it.

She floated back to her bed, pulled her clothes on with a mix of lassitude and distaste. They rubbed rough against her skin, roughness where she wanted the soft touch of a girl's fingers. As she stood to drop her dirty clothes in the hamper she kicked over her bag, the paper with Bellatrix's face on it spilling onto the floor. Ginny picked it up cautiously, almost afraid to look at the photograph. The woman snarled and prowled as best she could against the chains, her madness vibrating through her body, vibrating through Ginny's fingers where they touched the paper. But her eyes, the flickering black coals, pierced Ginny, ignited her. Dark lust tinged with fear, with unease, inexplicable hunger for the woman's presence, it was all tied to that heavy gray anticipation. _Are you waiting for me? Am I waiting for you?_

She tried to shake the thought from her head. Bellatrix Lestrange was a Dark witch, a woman whose power and evil was only surpassed by one, by He Who Must Not Be Named. She had murdered countless people, she had been put in Azkaban for a reason, her escape was only bad, only dangerous. Still, her flashing, hooded eyes held Ginny captive.

She threw the paper down as the sound of footsteps came up the stairwell. The Patils, sticking their heads in through the dormitory entrance, asking after Ron and Harry. Ginny shrugged noncommittally, trying to edge the paper farther across the bed. She didn't know where they were. She didn't care. She was still glowing from the excruciatingly brief kiss, still reliving the warm softness of Hermione's lips on hers, their slightly dry saltiness. She still felt the irrepressible pull toward Bellatrix Lestrange. She didn't have any time to think about boys, about where they might be. Her body was full of want already, full of dark currents, of sparkling lights. The twins vanished.

Ginny sat down on the edge of the bed, her fingertips playing at her mouth. The taste of Hermione still sweet there, the dark fire of Bellatrix Lestrange's eyes still burned into her brain.


	4. Chapter 4

And she was there. She was in the room, wand slashing, jets of light cascading around her. The long cloaks of the other Death Eaters swirled and fluttered as they maneuvered their spells and curses.

There was a group of them. Five, maybe six. Bellatrix did not know their names, she did not care, though one of them certainly was the boy. It was his prophecy they were after, her Lord's prophecy, and it had been taken before they could arrive.

But they were here, a murder of Death Eaters, descended upon yet another pitiful cluster of halfbreeds and blood traitors, fighting for her Lord. The raging ecstasy in her breast was so intense she found it difficult to breathe, her wand glowing in her hand, the promise of violence, of death, sang through her and the heavy scent of blood filled her nose and mouth.

Lucius Malfoy stood just in front of her to her left. She heard the thin voices of children groaning and steadying themselves, their confused exclamations high and young. An exultant thrill shuddered through her. _The boy_.

Malfoy, demanding the boy hand him the globe.

A wavering voice, still tinged with youth but excruciatingly familiar to Bellatrix's ears, insisting he'd break it.

Bellatrix slid around Malfoy, slipping her hood off.

The boy.

He wasn't tall, but he was strong, obviously, the traitor's face, the shock of black hair, the infamous scar, brilliant green eyes.

_Hers. The girl's._

Bellatrix stopped for half a breath, then moved forward. She blinked hard to get the imprint of the girl's eyes out of her mind, and forced the revulsion, the rage, the triumphant fury to overtake her. The ways her Lord would reward her for bringing Him the boy. He wouldn't mind if the boy was slightly broken, she knew. Wouldn't mind if the boy couldn't stand up straight so long as he could brandish a wand. Bellatrix bit her lip hard as she stared at him, at his scar, his hair, anywhere but his eyes. The excitement, the anticipation welling up in her, her hand twitching, wand sending small white sparks tumbling to the floor.

_The boy insisting he would break it. Must not let it be broken, must present them both to her Lord, must show him her loyalty. _

The long years in Azkaban, His voice her only company, His voice splintering her memories of the girl, His voice cursing Bellatrix, punishing her, promising her glory if she served him well. And then He released her, she knew it was He, there was no other who had the power to destroy the prison. The Mark blazing on her arm, Bellatrix pushing down on it, transported from the shattered cell to the circle of Death Eaters, _home home home_, waiting for him, her body moving ceaselessly, undulating unconsciously, her lips ruby from biting them, she waited for Him. And now the boy—

She tore her eyes off him to examine the others, his wretched band of supporters. A tall red-haired boy, a shorter, brown-haired girl next to him with a look of such fierce intensity Bella let out a shriek of laughter.

"Children!" she cackled. "They think they can defeat us! Defeat Him!"

"Quiet, Bellatrix," Lucius hissed. He held his hand out to the boy, who stared defiantly back, clutching the sphere.

A pale blonde, a tall, familiar-looking boy at the back. And then—

Bellatrix's laugh cut out abruptly. She gasped, stepping backward. Another girl, behind the boy, a cascade of red hair, smooth white skin smudged with dirt, glittering eyes boring into her.

_It isn't. It can't. _

Ginny inhaled sharply when the woman stepped forward and lowered her hood. _It was her. Bellatrix Lestrange_. The woman's face was gaunt, despoiled by long years in Azkaban. Though she appeared frail the blazing light she held in her eyes showed she was infinitely dangerous. Ginny was struck with fear, enveloped in the stale smell of it, her body cold all over. But under the fear, woven through it, was the same stultifying emptiness, the same hollow expectation that she had seen over the lake, that she had felt alone in her bed, and with it the same dark, fluid lust. _This is how I die_, Ginny thought, _this woman_.

Suddenly she was back in the glittering room in the Department of Mysteries. Bellatrix Lestrange was advancing on Harry, fast, her wand pointed at him. Ginny couldn't hear anything, fear and muted desire pressing on her ears. Malfoy was saying something, something that made Bellatrix Lestrange stop and turn back. She whipped around again, a feral, hungry snarl twisting her mouth into a blood-red gash. Abruptly Bellatrix Lestrange's eyes met hers, and Ginny felt cold, sleepy, humming with desire, limp with fear and perverse excitement. The woman stared at her, mouth slightly open, as in tremendous shock. She took a step back, her wand dropping a fraction of an inch.

In front of her she could tell Harry was speaking, but still couldn't hear anything. The world was muffled, dreamlike. And then—

Bellatrix raged at the boy. He was playing at heroics like his traitor father before him, Bellatrix growing weary of his posturing and bravado. She threw off Malfoy's arm and advanced next on the girl, mad turmoil howling through her. _It isn't._ As she got closer to the girl she saw it was not, of course it was not that one, not the one who swam through her dreams, who called in her blood. But she was close, _oh_, she was so close to the girl that hot rage flashed through her, rage mixed with such overwhelming grief, such palpable, stinging regret that she was furious at the other, directing her violence toward her, wanting to kill.

The girl's blood thundered through Bellatrix's veins as she bore down on the other. The other's body so close, the same height, the same heat as the girl, pain, anger, hatred billowing through her, exploding through her, the girl's blood furious in her body, she forgot about the boy, all Bellatrix wanted was to kill this mirror of the girl, to make her pay for the fate of the one she had held so closely.

Ginny shivered involuntarily as Bellatrix Lestrange approached. The woman's nearness was like a vacuum, cold, endlessly empty, but crushing down around her. She seemed to carry a cold wind with her that brushed Ginny's cheek. The coal in her belly burst into flame, the world closed on her, she saw only the deep hollows of Bellatrix's face, the icy black fire in her eyes. Ginny began to feel faint, felt herself buckling, and then Hermione was next to her, holding her up, and Ron stepping back to her, the group closing around her. Ginny wasn't aware of Hermione's fingers clutching at her arm, couldn't feel, couldn't hear, couldn't think, and then—

Bright flashes of light exploded around her. Someone was pushing her off down a corridor, Ron and Luna dragging her from room to room trying to escape the hail of curses. They ducked in and out of an immense series of rooms filled with half-lit objects, the Death Eaters close behind. Ron and Luna blasting spells at the doors, trying to close them, Ginny running blind, falling, Ron stopped somewhere behind her and laughing inexplicably. Sharp bolts of pain shot through her ankle, she had heard it snap, but she had to try, had to keep going, had to help her friends, had to see Bellatrix—

And Ron and Luna were shoving her through another door, she fell heavily on her broken ankle and muffled a cry of pain. On the floor in front of her lay Hermione, pallid, still.

Ginny stopped.

She forgot her pain.

Ginny stumbled to Hermione's body, hands fluttering over it, terrified. Neville was with her, twitching slightly, his nose bloody and broken. He was nodding to Harry, who appeared as if from nowhere. _Yes, yes, she's alive_, the nod was saying.

Relief flooded through Ginny's body. _She's alive_. She placed her hand delicately on Hermione's forehead, the skin slightly clammy under her fingers. Harry was dancing back and forth between Hermione and the doorway. Neville directed him to leave, told him they'd take care of her. He lifted Hermione's prone body and moved to the exit, Luna helping Ginny to stand, forcing Ron to stop his stupefied laugh long enough to get Ginny out of the room.

Bellatrix shrieked with bloodcurdling joy. She rained curses down on anyone she could see, frenzied, unstoppable. Not even the Order could restrain her; they had appeared moments after the children had run off. Bellatrix gave a sinister growl as the thin, stooped form of her despised cousin appeared before her. Sirius. And that filthy halfblood niece of hers. She blazed with exultant fury, firing curses almost at random, until the cracked voice of her cousin stopped her.

She turned, manic glee twisting her features. "Oh Sirius," she cooed, oozing with perversity. "I've waited so long." She whirled and bobbed, ducking his curses, firing her own. He had always been a skilled dueler, but her abilities far outstripped his.

As the boy came running back into the room, as the chaos swelled, she shot red jets of light from her wand, intent only on the drawn, bitter face of her cousin.

The roar was dulling around her but she hardly noticed. She aimed a spell at him, deflected into the wall, Sirius smirking at her, she hated him, she hated him, she turned her wand on him with impossible speed and a thin, poisonous green filament shot out and hit him square in the chest.

_He is dead. Oh my Lord, I have done this for you_.

Through her ecstatic haze she realized the room was nearly silent. The tall, bearded figure of Albus Dumbledore loomed in the doorway. She gasped for a moment, then turned and vanished into another room.

The boy followed.

He shouted at her and she felt sharp, intense pain wash over her for a moment. She fell to the ground, and the pain faded almost immediately. Pulled her lips back in a ferocious, hungry smile, teeth bared. The boy had tried to curse her. The boy, who knew nothing of rage, of hatred, knew nothing of the terrible, awesome power of vengeance.

_Bella_.

The voice hissed through the empty hall, filling her. The boy stopped dead in his tracks, Bellatrix was frozen on the ground.

_It was Him. It was Him, finally, after fifteen agonizing years_.

He appeared before her, majestic, cruel, malignant in his flowing black robes, his face white, serpentine, the power rolling off him.

"My Lord," she choked, and crawled to him, clutching at his robes. He placed his hand on her head for a moment before shaking her off. "I have brought you the boy," she whispered.

Voldemort laughed his high, cold, snarling laugh. "You have brought me nothing that I could not have found myself, Bellatrix, but your eagerness is touching."

The boy tried to run. Bellatrix darted after him, her spells soaring past him. He turned back and fired a red bolt at her, striking a statue that toppled and pinned her to the ground, her head slamming into the stone with a hard crack.

Bellatrix faded in and out of consciousness as she lay trapped, her Lord and the boy dueling, the meddler Dumbledore coming to the boy's defense. As she slipped into darkness, as the searing sparks disappeared from view and the ringing cries of the fighters slid away, she saw a smooth body disappearing into a vast red sea, a fall of auburn hair, the figure turning, slowly, pulling at her, and it was that girl, the other, her startling eyes, her pale skin so like that which had infected her dreams.

A drop in the noise of battle, replaced by the confused shouting of several people. Bellatrix's eyes slid open and she saw the room filling with bodies, their cries of astonishment ringing off the wrecked walls. And then—

Her Lord grasped her wrist hard, and with a loud _crack_, they were gone.

Ginny sat next to Hermione's bed, her hands folded, white and cold as marble, in her lap. The girl had stirred a few times; Madame Pomfrey assured Ginny she would wake fully within an hour or two. Her ankle ached slightly, it had been repaired but the tissue was still red and swollen. Ron and the others had been in and out throughout the night, but Ginny had refused to leave Hermione's side.

She studied Hermione's face, slack and natural, a relief after the unearthly stillness the curse had created. Ginny couldn't bring herself to touch Hermione, feeling ugly and raw when she thought about it, when she thought about the way her body had betrayed her when Bellatrix had appeared. She couldn't resist it, the pull of that woman so insistent, so commanding, but it felt wrong, it felt dark when she looked at Hermione laying so quiet and lovely beside her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Hermione moaned softly, nestling her face into the pillow. Her hands twitched slightly, and Ginny held her breath. Slowly Hermione's eyes slid open and met Ginny's.

"Hi," she whispered.

"Don't try to say anything or move or anything," Ginny said with soft urgency. "You're not well yet."

"What happened?" Hermione asked. "The Department of Mysteries—is everyone all right?" Panic edged into her voice.

"Yes, everyone's all right," Ginny said, as soothingly as she could. "A bit banged up, but otherwise okay. The Death Eaters didn't get it," she added quickly. "The Order showed up and stopped them."

Relief washed visibly over Hermione, and she sank back into the bed. "I feel awful," she groaned. After a beat, she shook her head slightly and looked at Ginny with alarm. "Your face—it's all bruised! Are you all right, Ginny? Were you hurt?"

"It's nothing, Madame Pomfrey fixed it."

"Nothing my arse," Ron's voice cut through the quiet in the air. "This one broke her ankle clean in half."

"Ron!" Ginny hissed. "Don't upset her!"

"Oh," he caught himself and looked at Hermione. "Yeah, everyone's okay. Took a couple of curses myself," he added. "I'm all right, though."

"Wonderful," Hermione murmured, slipping back into sleep. "I'm so glad."

"Ron, you stupid git," Ginny said crossly. "She's just coming out of something really horrible."

"What do you call being attacked by a giant mutant brain?" he huffed.

"As close to smart as you'll ever get?" Ginny managed a wry smile. Ron looked shocked for a moment, then grinned.

Madame Pomfrey appeared in the doorway. "All right, you two. To your dormitories." She held up her hand against Ginny's cry of protest. "Professor McGonagall's orders. I'll let you know the moment she wakes up."

Ginny shuffled glumly back to the Gryffindor common room, which was filled with people who broke into cheers when she and Ron entered. She didn't want to endure the platitudes of the crowd, smiled sheepishly for a moment and then limped up the stairs to her dormitory. Ron stayed behind, finding Harry in the throng and relishing his moment as a hero.

She collapsed on her bed. The battle at the Ministry and her vigil meant she hadn't slept in two days. Weak with exhaustion she didn't even have the energy to change her clothes, and fell asleep there, on top of her blankets, still dressed down to her shoes.

Her dreams were dark and foggy. She was standing with Hermione, hands entwined, in a cavernous room dominated by a four-post bed. A heavy black armoire occupied most of the opposite wall, and a fire was banked low in the hearth. Though she didn't recognize the room, Ginny felt a keen awareness of her surroundings. Hermione was mute beside her, her fingers woven in with Ginny's, her body slightly out of focus.

She glanced around and when she looked back at the bed, Bellatrix Lestrange was standing before it. She was holding a long silver knife, pointed at Ginny like a wand. Ginny was torn with the conflicting desires to pull Hermione closer to her, to tuck her into her arms and protect her, and to push her away and go to Bellatrix. The other woman looked younger, less ravaged, with more flesh on her bones. The dark flame of her beauty flickered across Ginny's skin, a low, rhythmic whisper wrapping around her, she couldn't make out the words but she knew it was Bellatrix, calling to her.

In the dream Ginny did not let go of Hermione's hand. It slipped through her fingers like water and she was gliding toward Bellatrix, toward the deadly point of the silver knife. In the dream Bellatrix held out her other hand to Ginny and she took it, the woman's fingers cold, gripping her wrist, laying her arm bare.

In the dream Bellatrix lifted the knife and pressed the point into Ginny's skin, tracing a thin, curving _B_ into the flesh of her arm.

In the dream she watched as bright red blood spilled down her skin, rivulets pooling in her hand, droplets splashing on the ground.

In the dream Bellatrix was leaning forward, raising the knife as though she would cut Ginny's throat, but in the dream Bellatrix parted her lips and placed the bloody point of it on her tongue, sucking the crimson from it. In the dream she lifted her mouth to Ginny's, red staining her lips, and as she drew nearer, impossibly near, as those lips parted to take Ginny's mouth in hers—

She woke, drenched in sweat and pulsing with desire. The deep place below her belly was alight, her skin burned, she ripped off her clothes as quickly as she could and thrust her hand between her legs, the sensation of Bellatrix's nearness still hard on her.

When she sat up, her body trembled with fatigue. She hadn't been sleeping long; the beds around her were still empty, undisturbed. Deep shame swept over her as she thought about Hermione, the dream was still sharp and clear but she couldn't remember how she had let Hermione's hand slip from hers. Had she? Had the girl pulled away? Ginny strained to remember but that part of the dream was elusive, ethereal. She had been there, and then she had not.

Ginny debated whether or not she should get up, dress, and go back down to the hospital wing. Madame Pomfrey probably wouldn't take too kindly to that, but Ginny knew if she went back to sleep she would have more dark dreams about Bellatrix Lestrange. The creeping pleasure they brought was almost painful to Ginny, the liquid eroticism intense, overwhelming. But the way they made her feel after—especially thinking of Hermione, her soft skin, her warm lips, the half-second in the bathroom.

That moment seemed so faraway to Ginny, so lost, like a dream itself. She swayed slightly on the bed, afraid of falling asleep, afraid of staying awake. She tried her hardest to remain upright, but before long the crushing weariness of the past two days overtook her and she fell back, swallowed by oblivion.


	5. Chapter 5

The days rushed past with astonishing speed. There was so much turmoil, so much chaos that Ginny couldn't keep track of time. Not that it mattered to her anyway, she was walking half-conscious through the halls, her mind filled with confused, swirling images. Violent, blood-soaked, pulsing with lust and dark magic, her dreams choked her, enveloped her, swallowed her in their murky depths. When she was awake she was torn, conflicted. Hermione had stopped avoiding her entirely; she had heard about Ginny's vigil after the battle at the Ministry and would stand beside her, quiet, cautious, their nervous closeness making it difficult for either of them to speak. Ginny was afraid to talk to her, afraid of what she might say, afraid that Hermione somehow knew about the sinister dreams, the sharp, malicious visions, the trembling liquid heat that coursed through her.

When she was awake, Ginny wanted the image of Bellatrix Lestrange to leave her in peace, wanted the woman's aching cold pull to stop. She couldn't bear the way the thoughts made her feel, the way they hijacked her body, dulled her mind. Yet the shimmering envelope of desire was intoxicating, Ginny couldn't bring herself to banish the woman's beautiful, terrible face, her lip glistening with blood, her deep hooded eyes.

In her dreams the woman was always there. Ginny found herself more and more often disappearing in that enormous room, Bellatrix waiting for her, young, excruciatingly beautiful, her body supple and languid, animal, serpentine. Her dreams were increasingly sensual, dark and erotic, potent, bloody, they seared through her body and she woke vibrating, on fire. The part she hated, the part that confused and frightened her the most, was that when she woke, still burning from dreams of Bellatrix, her first thought was of Hermione. The two of them twisted perversely in her head, Ginny's shuddering breath mingling the taste of Hermione's mouth and the cruel touch of Bellatrix's fingers. The part Ginny hated was how the fusion of the two women she loved _Bella, I love you, a thunderbolt through her body_ made the sensations so intense, made her body twist and ache so hungrily, how when she came she could not separate their faces, their hands.

She drifted through the disappearing days, murky and unfocused. Ron tried to bring her out of her somnambulant haze by making rude jokes, slipping Weasley candies to unsuspecting young students to amuse her, and when school was out he took her to visit Fred and George several times. The twins made her laugh, and she was glad of Ron's attention, but nothing could break her completely out of her distraction.

The only thing that helped, and it was a bitter comfort, was Hermione's presence at the Burrow over the summer. She had received permission from her parents to stay most of the holiday, which meant long, interrupted stretches of almost not-uncomfortable silence, she and Ginny laying side by side in the wide field near the house, the sun warming them as the days passed.

They still hadn't spoken much, but Hermione was spending more and more time with Ginny. Gradually, the awkwardness between them was dissolving into comfort, though a different kind than it had been before the last year, before the half-second in the bathroom, before Ginny kissed her, before the battle and Ginny's long wait at Hermione's bedside. And then—

It was shortly after Fleur had appeared at the Burrow with her announcement that she would be marrying Bill. The two Weasley females and Hermione had been out of sorts since the French girl's arrival, her silvery glow and her way of driving all the boys to distraction was irritating, infuriating, especially to Ginny who couldn't help but be drawn to her despite herself.

Fleur's arrival had marked a change in Ginny, relieved some of the awful pressure of Bellatrix Lestrange's seductive power. The girl's beauty was palpable, and Ginny let it invade her thoughts more than she would ever admit, even to herself. Idle fantasy began to crowd out dark visions, to spark something she felt was more normal than her tumultuous attraction to Bellatrix.

She and Hermione were lying on their backs in the field, Hermione complaining about Fleur, Ginny only half-listening. The sun glowed hot on her skin, the good smells of grass and earth filling her nose and mouth, the buzz of insects and the steady cadence of Hermione's voice lulling her into a peaceful, drowsy happiness.

"And she's not even that pretty," Hermione was saying.

Before Ginny knew what she was doing, she reached over and took Hermione's warm hand in hers. "I think you're much prettier than she is, anyway," she murmured.

Hermione stiffened. Ginny didn't open her eyes, not wanting to break the spell of the day, the sunlight, the sweet grass smell, the humming of the air around her. She wove her fingers through Hermione's, the girl not resisting, not pulling away, but not responding.

They lay for a moment, Ginny languid and still, Hermione frozen, breathing shallowly. Ginny began to stroke the back of Hermione's hand with her thumb, rhythmic, soft, and gradually Hermione's breathing slowed and deepened. "Ginny--" she began, her voice shaking slightly. Ginny shook her head drowsily, not speaking. She continued to stroke Hermione's hand, the delicate skin like magic beneath her fingertips, and with her free hand she reached slowly toward her, not wanting to startle the girl, but knowing it was now, it was now that she would touch her, her smooth flesh, it was now that she would see, she would feel, _this is what a girl's body looks like_, and she placed her hand flat on Hermione's stomach, breath shuddering through the girl fast, Ginny could feel her pulse under the palm of her hand.

Slowly, carefully, gently, Ginny slipped her hand under Hermione's shirt, the girl's hot, dry skin alive beneath her fingers.

"Ginny, what--"

She didn't speak, let her palm slide smoothly across the flat planes of Hermione's body. The girl's pulse raced beneath her touch, her breath coming rapid, as Ginny's hand explored her, played over the ripples of her ribcage, slipped gently around the soft curve of her breast, her breathing became heavier, ragged, Ginny didn't open her eyes but could sense Hermione's head tipping back, her lips parting as her breath turned to faint gasps.

_This is what a girl's body feels like._

And Ginny was an explorer, discovering uncharted territories, placing her flag on Hermione's stomach, the hollow between her breasts, mapping the long slope of her side, the ridge and valley of her collarbones, claiming her.

Hermione tried to speak again, her words choked and thick. "Someone could—someone could see," she gasped. Ginny continued her quiet investigation, her thumb dipping under Hermione's bra, a bolt of liquid fire shooting from her head to the hollow between her legs as it brushed Hermione's hard nipple, the girl's shocked intake of breath, her involuntary low groan. The girl's fingers tightened around her own, clutching at her, pulling Ginny closer.

Ginny's hand slipped down the length of Hermione's trembling torso, pausing just slightly at her waist, hooking her thumb around the button on Hermione's jeans. She waited, nervous anticipation mingled with that enigmatic boldness, a surety of purpose. Her hand unmoving, so precipitously close to the thing she had been dreaming about, had been envisioning for such a long time, and Hermione whimpered and shifted her hips slightly.

Dizzying excitement rushed through Ginny as she carefully unbuttoned Hermione's jeans and slid the zipper down with an oiled _snick_. Her breath coming harsh, uneven, her hands trembling, Hermione's hand hot and sweaty in hers, squeezing her fingers, urging her forward.

Delicately sliding her hand beneath the heavy denim. The burning warmth from Hermione's center palpable, it was like a beacon, guiding Ginny's fingers. She hardly dared breathe, afraid that at any moment Hermione would sit up, would shout at her, would run away. As her fingertips pressed softly at the liquid heat between Hermione's legs the girl cried out quietly, her legs parting, letting Ginny explore her, letting Ginny discover the secret places in her body, Ginny memorizing her like a new map, charting every tiny part of her, the girl writhing now, pushing against Ginny's hand, her hips rocking, fingers squeezing Ginny's rhythmically, her breath high in her chest, Ginny wriggling, biting her lip, eyes shut tightly, she was drowning under the pressure of her own ache, her own desire, the flames deep in her belly stoked, rising, billowing as Hermione moaned and pressed against her.

Ginny didn't want it to end, didn't want to wake up. The air hot and sweet, grass tickling her, the dull sounds of nature muted by the rush of blood in her ears, and Hermione, Hermione bucking against her hand, Hermione squirming under her touch, her heavy liquid arousal making Ginny feel faint, Ginny's hand moving independently, under the elastic of the girl's underwear, slipping so easily into that dark, secret place, Hermione crying out in earnest as Ginny touched her, stroked her, skin on skin, Hermione was melting, was dissolving, short panting breath, high-pitched gasps, low rumbling groans ripped from her throat that made blackness swirl in front of Ginny, as she manipulated the tender flesh under her fingers Hermione moaned, whimpered, deep growls of pleasure coming from a place Ginny couldn't imagine, they were so heavy, so dark, the blackness was pulling at her, swallowing her, making her feel empty and expectant and trembling with thick, with fevered lust. Her hand worked furiously under Hermione's clothes, her frantic stroking, Hermione's spiraling cries, the blackness swallowing her, and Hermione was calling her name, was screaming it, was keening for her in a voice that was not her own, a voice that sent Ginny tumbling down into that endless, cold vacuum, a voice that caused her own desire to flare, to explode, and she was suspended for a moment in a deep, rolling sea, inchoate, pulsing with that voice, with those unintelligible words filling her, ripping her open, and as Hermione wailed and tightened around her hand Ginny saw behind her eyes the cruel, white face of Bellatrix Lestrange, licking a drop of blood from her lip.

"Ginny," Hermione whispered. "Ginny."

Ginny blinked, groggy, sunlight stinging her eyes. She felt as though she had been asleep for a very long time. She realized her hand was still inside Hermione's jeans, understood that she had blacked out only for a moment. Hermione was panting slightly, her chest falling and rising in short bursts. She winced imperceptibly as Ginny withdrew her fingers, then sighed and went almost limp next to her.

"I--" Ginny started. Hermione interrupted her, thankfully, Ginny had no idea what she had been going to say, what she was supposed to say, what she ought to say.

"Just don't—I don't really know what to say," Hermione said, her voice tinged with nervousness. "That was . . ."

Ginny wasn't sure what Hermione meant. A shock of fear crashed over her like cold water. Had she done something irreparable? Something terrible?

". . . lovely," Hermione finished after a brief pause. There was an undercurrent of anxiety, confusion, the barest trace of something like she was going to cry, but she did not let go of Ginny's hand.

They lay side by side in the grass, their breathing gradually returning to normal, staring straight up at the bright sky.


	6. Chapter 6

When school started, Ginny saw less of Hermione that she had become accustomed to. The rest of the summer had been spent in a tentative, bashful glow, punctuated by forays into the woods, giggling half-embarrassed explorations in Ginny's bedroom after the rest of the house was asleep, and blushing glances across the kitchen table. Ginny didn't stop to think what would happen when the spell of constant proximity was broken, didn't stop to worry about returning to Hogwarts, she and Hermione busy with different things, and surrounded by people. But as the long, lazy days drew to a close, she felt her pulse quickening with dread. They would have to go back, it would be different.

Another, deeper fear, she would be returning to school, unprotected by Hermione's affection, by Fleur's intoxicating nearness, the glowing haze of her secret, sensitive love for them would weaken, she knew, and as time rushed past her she could feel Bellatrix Lestrange beginning to pluck at her again, as if the woman knew she was losing her blanket of comfortable distraction.

Ginny didn't want Bellatrix inside her mind, didn't want her poisoning her body with that dark, dangerous ache, but she was helpless to defend herself against it. When the dreams started returning, late in the summer, she had sought out Hermione's arms, wrapping herself in the girl's warm embrace, hoping her nearness would block out the images, hoping her sweet smell would make the heavy scent of blood disappear. She hated the way she felt after waking up from dreams of the woman, hated the part of her that loved Bellatrix, didn't want any part of the woman's Dark power. She was fighting the evil the woman represented, was fighting the unnamable hatred and violence she was such a deep part of. Ginny was torn, unable to stop herself from wanting Bellatrix, trying so hard to make loving Hermione the only thing she felt.

Hermione was changing too. As the days counted down she began to pull away from Ginny, as if she were waking from a dream. She said even less to her in public, when they were alone her nervous caresses became more hesitant, less fevered. Ginny noticed it, noticed the way Hermione bit her lips to keep from making any noise, held very still as Ginny knelt between her legs, as though she were trying to force herself not to feel Ginny's mouth on her. Ginny was confused, and the old fear that Hermione knew what blossomed in her mind would come creeping back to her. She was gripped by the terror of Hermione seeing that blackness, feeling the emptiness inside her. And then—

Bellatrix sighed. She had been returned to the Lestrange house several weeks earlier, after a brief stay with the Dark Lord. He had been displeased with her, He had punished her severely for the destruction of the prophecy, for her failure in providing Him with the boy.

_The boy_.

She thought of him occasionally, the image of his face sending frozen bolts of furious anger through her. _He has the girl's eyes_.

Bellatrix did not think of the girl.

Bellatrix did not let herself think of the girl.

She thought of the other, that other one, the one who looked so much like her. When she saw the other's face painful, hateful aching trembled low in her belly, the other's face twisted her mind, driving the splintered memories of the girl deeper into her, puncturing her, searing flashes of agony making her gasp aloud. _You will suffer, little one_, she thought, images of the other's body torn, bleeding, welling in her unbidden. Bellatrix did not know her own mind any longer, the terrible violence and then her years in Azkaban had made her into a rough assemblage of poisonous memory, the Dark Lord's thoughts, His voice, and a bottomless, seething pit of wrath. When she saw the other the shards of her happiness, twisted and defiled by His whispers, were spread before her, ugly and perverse, and she wanted to kill, wanted to kill the other one for making her remember.

And yet—

Bellatrix shuddered involuntarily as she remembered, unwilling, the girl's fingers on her body, the girl kneeling before her, her white throat bared, the excruciating beauty of the pattern of blood drawn on her flesh.

She lay on her bed, _the same bed, she was here, the girl had loved her in this bed_, and tried to breathe normally. It came in rough, painful gasps, visions of the girl rushing at her, twining with the other's face, so close, so close, twisting up with the other's body, so very near to the girl's, it could be her, wound tightly with the way the other had wavered when Bellatrix came near her, the rapid rise and fall of her chest thrusting Bella back, years, centuries, back to the room she still occupied, back to endless nights, bloody nights, sweet, cruel, ecstatic nights with the girl.

Bellatrix ran her fingers over the heavy red stone that now rested embedded in thick silver, inlaid in the headboard of her bed. It had been cold for a long time, dull and unresponsive. _It was over._

Her blood still pulsed with the girl's, it was her punishment, her agony, her payment to her Lord for betraying Him, to bear the weight of the girl's blood, to bear her distorted, bitter memories deep within herself, to feel the constant pull of the girl, the constant beckoning of her, calling to Bellatrix across the vast chasm of death.

She pushed herself off the bed and stood before the mirror, her reflection cold and disapproving. Bellatrix grimaced and steadied herself before going down the stairs, into the long dining room where Rodolphus was waiting for her. They had been delivered from Azkaban at the same time but Rodolphus had emerged less damaged, less destroyed than his wife. He had suffered the torments of the dementors almost indifferently, their lasting effect a deep, unswerving loyalty to her. It was a testament to the cold perversity of the place that he would love her so devotedly upon their release, that his presence would serve as an extension of her imprisonment. It was only through her that his devotion to the Dark Lord was manifested; he spent most of his time haunting their house in London, waiting for her.

Bellatrix hated him more than she could conceive of.

She avoided him as best she could, maintaining her refusal to let him touch her even when her body burned, ached, cried with desire, waves of intense lust sucking her down into blackness, always when she awoke from her obscure dreams of the girl, and now, her dreams of the other, the little one.

Rodolphus sat quietly at the foot of the enormous table, a tall goblet at his side. When Bellatrix entered his eyes flashed with desire, with want for her. She shuddered, not bothering to hide her revulsion. It didn't matter what she did or said, his fidelity was unwavering.

"My love," he murmured when she passed by him.

"Lestrange," she said, cold and dismissive.

He reached for her, his fingers brushing her cold hand, and she stopped, spinning angrily on her heel. She didn't speak, raised her hand and hit him across the face. His eyes swam for a moment, but he did not respond.

She was dying again, the house was filled with cold, seeping, airless death. Her power was dimming, was growing dull, she felt weak and impotent. She yearned for the Dark Lord, was desperate to be near Him, to regain his favor. She had been trying to re-establish her influence among the Death Eaters, proving herself.

There had been precious little for her to do. He was punishing her, making her wait. The only thing she had been able to do was that business with Snape, with Narcissa. Her blood coiled fierce through her as she thought about Snape's traitorous face, her mistrust of him, her hatred of him keen in her breast. Yet he had made the Unbreakable Vow, Bellatrix had bonded them herself. Doing so had made her feel even weaker, hearing her sister whisper about her precious son's duties to her Lord, duties that should have been hers. And yet—

The boy would know the other one, the little one. He was still at Hogwarts, though Bellatrix doubted he would be for long. His task was important, it was vital to her Lord's ascension, he would be needed elsewhere soon. But now, but now he was there, he could see the other, perhaps Narcissa would—

Bellatrix brooded as she stared into the fire. Emotion crackled through her, tumultuous, unnamable. She could not abuse her Lord's plans, could not take advantage of Draco's position to fulfill her own desires. But as her blood raged in her veins, as the girl's blood tore at her, as she _remembered_—

She would go to Him. She would throw herself before Him. She would plead for His forgiveness, for His trust in her to be restored. She would go to Him, would ask Him for permission to find the little one, would beg for Him to allow her to kill the other. It was only a tiny sacrifice, the other was not important enough for Him to waste His time on, and Bellatrix had been given nothing, had not been called to perform any task for him, any small favor. She would do it voluntarily, her bloodlust screaming in her ears, the need to torture, to kill, to satisfy her hungry desire. Perhaps He would allow it, perhaps He would favor her, perhaps He would be pleased by her need to destroy the one so close to the girl that had caused her betrayal.

"I am going to Him, Lestrange," she said quietly. _I am going to her._

Rodolphus looked at her, his blind dedication sickening her slightly. She would leave at once.

Ginny shivered suddenly. A dark flush had suddenly flared through her mind, across her body. She sat upright in bed; not yet asleep, but already feeling Bellatrix in her. Hermione hadn't come to her in weeks, Ginny's body was constantly humming with want for her, to feel her soft skin beneath her fingertips, to taste the sweetness on her lips. Yet Hermione didn't come.

Ginny wanted her for other reasons.

When Hermione was near, Bellatrix was farther away. Hermione was a kind of shield, protection against the emptiness, against the taste of blood on her tongue. Hermione's face crowded out Bellatrix's, made Ginny's dark, vile want subside. When she was away, the longer she was gone, the stronger Bellatrix's pull. Ginny needed Hermione, loved her, desperate for the charm of Hermione's presence because it kept her inexplicable, violent, frightening lust for Bellatrix at bay.

Ginny felt weak. Ginny knew without knowing that she would see Bellatrix again, soon, that she would be unable to stop herself.

_Oh Hermione, save me, save me. _

And now this humming, and now she closed her eyes and began to hear it, Bellatrix's dark voice murmuring to her, the words growing clearer, stronger.

_You will suffer, little one._

The ominous, pressing threat in that voice, the heavy promise, the danger, uncovered the blackness in Ginny, made her raw, filled her with dull expectancy. She wanted it, she wanted it, she wanted Bellatrix to come to her, to touch her, to open her wide, to make her cry out, she wanted Bellatrix to make reality her malicious, malignant dreams.

_No, no, no_

Ginny tried to suppress it, tried to pull Hermione's face to the forefront of her mind, tried to recreate the sensation of the girl's skin, tried to taste the beads of sweat on her tongue, to make Hermione's whimpers, cries drown out the creeping whisper.

_You will suffer, little one._

Ginny felt her blood, pounding hard through her. She felt her blood so strongly, she felt her blood as it circled her body, slipping through her veins, carrying Bellatrix's voice to every part of her, felt her blood beginning to pool at her base, beginning to swell, to rise, to burn.

_No_.

But still it rushed, it spiraled down into her thrumming core, her skin turning cold, white, the blood being drawn away from her limbs, making her dizzy, the low constant whisper overtaking her. Hermione was fading, Ginny grasped at her hands in her mind, tried to pull the girl close to her, over her, but Hermione's hands slipped away, slipped away like water between her fingers, Hermione disappeared into blackness.

_You will suffer_.


	7. Chapter 7

Her body was so heavy she thought her arms would be ripped from their sockets. Her fingertips were numb, her wrists burned, her back was a rippling wall of hot agony, all down her body violent red streaks slashed across her skin, some bleeding, some raised, and as she twisted just above the bed, her knees grazing the blanket, she heard that laugh, low at first, soaring higher, cracking, splitting open, roaring across her unbearably sensitized flesh.

Intense pain seared through her as bright red lights flashed in front of her eyes. Her throat was raw from screaming, a hard knot lodged there made it difficult to swallow, her head thrown back because if she dropped it to her chest, the light, the pain would come again.

She had been hanging by her wrists for hours, days, an eternity. She was senseless to the passage of time, senseless to everything but the pain, the bloodcurdling shrieks of laughter, the blinding bolts of crimson light, senseless to everything but _her_.

Bellatrix flicked her wand again. The little one writhed and tried to scream, her voice gone, only a guttural moan forcing its way past her bruised, bleeding lips. A gleeful cackle bubbled out of Bellatrix; she raised her wand high and slashed it hard through the air. The little one's body stiffened, her naked hips pushing forward, her back arching impossibly, her red hair brushing against her feet as they tried to find purchase on the bed. The girl's bones were pushing at her skin, sweat and blood coursed down her, making her glitter, making her glow in the firelight. Bellatrix paused her ferocious attack for a moment and regarded her, now hanging limp, her throat working desperately, her mouth open, eyes closed, curtain of hair cascading down her back. Bellatrix admired the way the rivulets of the little one's blood outlined the curve of her breasts, the neat ridges of her ribs, admired the smooth, concave plain of her stomach, her breath fluttering, causing it to rise and fall in spasmodic jerks.

_You will suffer, little one_.

Ginny heard it, heard it inside her, in her blood, in her brain. Bellatrix's low voice, cold, dark, empty, but full, so full of rage, of blood. The slicing agony burned through her, Bellatrix's voice seeping in through her wounds, through the welling cuts on her skin, seeping into her body. She did not realize the flashing light, the sudden jolting pain, had stopped. She was dangling, raw, bare, open, she was falling, she was tumbling through blackness, the thick aura of iron and sweat making her choke, heavy smells like amber, like oil pushing her down, down, filling her.

_You will suffer_.

It pulsed around her, making her sway, she was rocking, suspended, twisting in the cold, pressing air.

Bellatrix stepped toward her. Ginny could not see, could not open her eyes, but she could feel her approaching. As she drew nearer the smell of blood intensified, it was her own, the hot wet sting of it sharp on her tongue as she tried to breathe, the deep gash on her cheek spilling it into her mouth. Ginny knew without knowing that it was the taste of her, that if she put her lips to Bellatrix's flesh she would taste the sweet, salty, metallic flush of blood there.

"How does it feel, cunt?" Bellatrix's voice hard and sharp.

Ginny said nothing, couldn't speak, her voice useless after an eternity of anguished screams. She was limp, motionless.

"I asked you," now low, now menacing, "how does it _feel_?"

The light. The pain.

"Would you like it to stop?"

Ginny tried to nod, her head thrown back, the knot in her throat solid, aching, her hair fluttering over her back, threads of pain twisting through her where it brushed against the marks.

"What was that? I didn't hear you."

The pain.

"Yes," she managed to gasp finally.

"Yes _what_?"

Ginny knew the answer. She knew it deep within herself, had always known it, the most terrifying, the most agonizing, the most undeniable thing, she had known it the moment she had first seen Bellatrix's flashing, malignant eyes staring at her from her photograph.

"Yes, Mistress," her voice scraping her throat, the words burning like bile in her mouth, the words slipping out without thought, the words ugly and perverse and so absolute, so unquestionably correct.

Bellatrix laughed again, not the piercing shrieks that had been ripping at Ginny's prone body, but a low, liquid murmur that washed over her like balm. She said nothing, but suddenly Ginny felt the chain suspending her from the ceiling drop slightly, her knees firm on the bed, her joints loose in their sockets. She was so close to Ginny now, the smell of blood like waves rolling off her, carried by her pulse, the pulse Ginny could feel, vibrating through the atmosphere. Under the scent of it were orchids, the sharpness of pomegranate, the heaviness of clay. The perfume of her skin, rich, a liquid fragrance weaving through Ginny's body. The absence of sharp pain, the relief of having something solid beneath her, the intoxicating proximity of Bellatrix made Ginny sway slightly, washed over her and caused a sinister heat to blossom low in her belly. She was too broken to feel revulsion at her body's traitorous reaction to the woman, too exhausted and shattered to want anything but the nearness of Bellatrix, the promise of her so close, so alluring.

Bellatrix knelt behind the little one's trembling form, studying the elegant swaths of blood that swirled on her back. _So like the girl_, but this one's blood was bright, gleaming, pure. She reached up and stroked the little one's hair, making her shudder.

Ginny tried to gasp, but the breath was too painful. Bellatrix's hand was cool even through her hair; Ginny could feel her thin bones, the coldness of her skin, could feel the power in her fingers as they slipped down her back.

_So like the girl_, the curve of the little one's side, Bellatrix's hands had already mapped this flesh, this body, a thousand years ago, in another life. As she traced the shivering skin her eyes slid closed, her hands on the little one's body, the girl's body, so soft and warm beneath her touch. Her fingers drifted over the curving bones of her ribcage, flattened against her stomach, moved softly up, between the girl's breasts, Bellatrix gently cupping the roundness there, gasping unconsciously when the girl gasped, when Bella's thumb skimmed her nipple.

Ginny was senseless. Bellatrix was behind her, was touching her, was caressing her like a lover. The sweetness of her fingertips sent crackling sparks through her, overwhelming the dull, throbbing ache of her skin, her bones. She leaned back, indifferent to the pull of the chains on her wrists. All she knew was the sensation of Bellatrix's hands moving over her.

The girl's body leaned into hers, Bella pushing forward, pressing herself to the girl, her arms tightening around her. Her lips brushed the girl's shoulder, the sweat liquid on her skin, Bella's tongue darting out, the sweet, clean taste of grass, the faint essence of flowers, of warm earth mingling with her salty blood. Bella's fingers continued their delicate exploration, tracing the prominent crest of her clavicle, the long, elegant contour of her neck, her other hand drifting down, examining the clean line of her hipbones, the valley between them, lower, lower, the girl's harsh breath crackling out of her, as she felt the heat of the girl's sex her blood began to sing through her veins, _the girl, the girl_, she was falling backward in time, it was the girl, the girl suspended before her, supported by her own flesh, her own body.

Ginny was gasping for air, greedy for Bella's touch, desperate for it. A thin, keening moan slipped from her throat, slicing at the raw tissue, but she was unable to suppress it. She could feel Bella's pulse throbbing hard against her skin, could feel it in the woman's fingertips as they spanned her body, cupping her jaw, the other sinking lower, lower, the black flower inside her bursting open, she wanted Bella to touch her deeper, she wanted Bella to slide her hand between her legs, she wanted Bella inside her, she wanted—

And like a wave crashing over her _Bella, Bella I love you_.

Suddenly the hand high up, the thumb so gently stroking her cheek dropped to her throat, closed around it, pressing hard and rough on the knot there. Ginny choked, it burned, the pain so sudden and fierce and she tried to cry out but Bella was gripping her throat so tightly, so tightly and she couldn't breathe, couldn't make a sound, blackness lapping at her, pulling her down again—

"What?" Bella's voice dark, terrifying, so cold it sent shivers through Ginny.

The little one jerked against her grip, trying to draw breath. "Bella," she gasped.

_It was her. It was her. The girl_.

Her voice ragged, torn, pleading, heavy with want. Her voice unmistakable, her voice clear in Bella's fractured mind, as though the splinters were being sucked back into a whole image. _The girl_. Her blood turned to fire, she released the girl, stepped back, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to draw a solid breath. Slowly, apprehensively, she circled the bed to face her.

Something shifted in Bella's mind; she blinked hard as she stared at the girl's face, at her lover's face, her radiant green eyes piercing Bella, ripping open secret wounds. She gasped, shuddered, stepped back, dull pain wrenching in her gut.

Ginny opened her eyes at last. Bella was standing before her, her luminous face twisted with shock. Ginny was disoriented, afraid. After a moment Bellatrix moved closer, Ginny could see her indigo eyes flashing with a dark fire, frightening in its intensity. Her gaze was at once distant and piercingly lucid, she seemed to be looking at someone else, another girl inside Ginny's body. Her eyes burned into Ginny, imprinting on her brain.

Bella stepped to the girl, taking her bruised face in her hands, leaning so close, searching her. After a long, perfumed moment she touched her lips to the girl's.

Black flames engulfed Ginny when Bella pressed her lips to her swollen mouth. The heat was excruciating, it licked at her skin, it sent shuddering explosions through her body, she was being swallowed by it, swallowed by Bella's pressing mouth, her tongue forcing between Ginny's teeth, plunging deep into her. Ginny swung herself furiously toward Bella, desperate to feel the crush of her form, the pressure of her skin against Ginny's. Her mind was obliterated, she couldn't think, dulled from pain, drugged from the liquor of Bella's scent, all she wanted was more, was more, was—

Bella lifted her mouth from the girl's, lapped delicately at her throat, her hands running blindly over the girl's taut flesh. The girl undulated, moaned, her hair falling over her face, spilling across her skin, pulsing with desire, she writhed under Bella's touch. The woman was becoming frenzied, she was licking Ginny's skin, she was biting at her, she was sucking the blood from her wounds, she was stroking her everywhere, Ginny was helpless, unable to move, unable to touch back. Her fingers twisted and clenched at themselves, still pinned together by the thin silver manacles, her body rose and fell as she struggled against her bonds, Bella was snaking lower, was kneeling in front of her, her mouth on Ginny's breast, rough, liquid, was biting at her smooth belly, fingernails leaving long red scratches across her tender back, her thighs, Bella's mouth was there now, Ginny parted her legs, her center ablaze, she wanted Bella's tongue, her lips, her teeth, she wanted Bella to fuck her, _oh yes_, she thrust her hips forward, her body swinging from the chain, she rocked, she bucked, and Bella was spreading her, Bella's cool tongue was dipping between her legs, was tasting her, Bella's hand sliding up her thigh, Bella's fingers pushing into her, Bella's mouth sucking her, and Ginny screamed again, insensible to the pain ripping at her torn throat, screamed as Bella fucked her, as Bella thrust her fingers deep inside her, Bella's tongue sliding over her hot flesh, Ginny screamed, she screamed, her head thrown back, jerking hard against the chain, blackness rushing at her, she twisted and thrust and cried out, spiraling higher, sinking, torn in two, and Bella sucked and sucked her and bit down, and Ginny lost consciousness.

The girl's body slack, her eyes closed. Bellatrix blinked, dazed, licking her lips and tasting the girl there, the world swimming in front of her, her pulse thundering, she stumbled off the bed and found her wand, abandoned on the floor, flicking it over the girl, her wounds disappearing. The girl whimpered slightly, not stirring, and Bella touched her wand to the chain, it lengthened slowly, dropping the girl to the bed. Bella removed the manacles with another flick of her wand and the girl moaned softly, regaining consciousness, rubbing her wrists gingerly, her body still flushed and trembling.

The low sounds in her throat swelled as Bella traced her quivering flesh with the tip of her wand. The exquisite lust that glowed through her danced visibly down the supple wood, making it shimmer red-black. The faint light spread to the girl's body, a subtle blush mingling with the heat radiating off her, she was gasping, her chest fluttering, Bella drew her wand down the girl's body, it was transmitting and absorbing their shared need, Bella could feel the girl's heavy desire, could feel the shock of afterglow, the building waves of new arousal mixing with her own.

Ginny's arms burned. Lifting them was excruciating, pain so intense it froze, rippled through her body, yet she need to lift them, needed to touch Bella's face, to feel her skin beneath her fingers.

The first brush of Bella's fine flesh turned Ginny liquid again. It was cool, suffused with silk and blood and poisonous, intoxicating lust. Ginny's fingers trembled as they slipped over Bella's cheek, pressing slightly at the hollow there, over her rich lips, her delicate jaw, as they sloped down her long, fine neck. Bella shuddered at Ginny's touch, the tip of her wand dragging harder across Ginny's skin, glowing brighter as her want flared. The wand left a glittering red path down the girl's white flesh, tracing across her stomach, the girl breathing shallowly, wriggling as the dark, potent magic seeped into her skin.

Ginny's hands moved more urgently across Bella's body, tugging at her dress, blindly seeking the coolness of her bare flesh as Bella's wand stoked the wildfires that raged through her.

_The girl touching her_.

Bellatrix swayed on the bed, the girl's fingers, the heat of her desire pulsing up the slender wand, swells of heavy lust rolling over her. She wanted the girl, wanted her hands, her mouth, wanted to feel the girl twist and buck and writhe beneath her.

Her wand danced over the girl's thighs, slipping between them, her blood cascading, crashing, red seas drowning her as she thrust it deep into the girl.

Ginny exploded.

The momentary sharp pain of Bella's wand pushing hard into her was immediately obliterated by blinding pleasure, by such deep, violent, anguished pleasure that her eyes rolled back in her head, the blackness clamped down on her like a tight fist, her body bucking hard against Bella's, wordless cries pouring from her lips, she could hear Bella's low voice thrumming through her, the words shifting, becoming strange, Ginny didn't understand them but all she could do was feel, was shake, was cry out, she was lost, she was falling, the pleasure shattering her nerves, shattering her mind _Bella, Bella I love you_ the dark whisper curious, engulfing, the liquid smoke of Bella's voice, the hard push of her wand, Ginny screaming again, soundlessly, her hips arching high off the bed, her hands tearing at Bella, the blackness choking her, choking her, Bella's voice scratching at her ears, pulsing through her skin, in her blood, Bella's voice whispering a name that was not Ginny's, a name Ginny vaguely recognized, a name she would take on as long as Bella kept loving her this way, so distant, so immediate, so violent, cruel, beautiful, she wrapped her legs around Bella's body, keening, twisting her fingers in the blankets, and as she came the world vanished and she was gone.


	8. Chapter 8

Ginny sat up in bed, sweat coursing down her skin, soaking her pajamas. Her hair wound around her neck, strands caught in her mouth, threads tugging at her. She brushed them away with a trembling hand, white and thin.

_Bella, Bella I love you_.

The thought flashed across her mind unbidden. Ginny shuddered, her stomach twisting. The dreams had been coming fast, hard, relentless, and when she woke she still thought of Hermione. Now, after—

She shook her head hard, trying to dislodge the involuntary pleasure that bloomed there. She squeezed her knees together, trying to snuff out the coals that smoldered in her center. She was repulsed by what had happened, she felt stained, dirty, inexorably sordid. The memory of it was sharp in her mind, it made her fingers clench unconsciously, it filled her mouth with the taste of blood, of earth, she wanted to vomit when she thought of Bellatrix, when she thought of how the woman had called to her, had caught her, had done those things to her—

_And I let her. I let her do those things, I let her touch me, I let her fuck me, I screamed her name_.

Rage and nausea and terrible, choking sadness swelled in her, made her limbs heavy, cold, she wanted to cut them off, she wanted to tear at herself, to empty her body of Bellatrix. The woman's hold on her was like iron, she couldn't free herself, she couldn't live without her, she knew. The awful, flooding feeling she had whenever she thought of Bellatrix's face like a poisonous flower, when she caught the sensation of Bellatrix's cool hands running over her flesh, when she remembered the annihilating black ecstasy of Bellatrix's skin, her fingers, her wand thrusting again and again into Ginny's writhing body, was so painful and grotesque and hopelessly, helplessly exhilarating that she would take off running, wherever she was, running without destination, trying to escape herself. And Hermione—

_Hermione_.

Tears pricked at the corners of Ginny's eyes and spilled down her cheeks, making salty paths down her flushed skin. Ginny hadn't been able to face her since she had returned those weeks ago, since that night. Hermione had tried to come to her, tried to speak to her, tried to discover what had happened that would make Ginny so silent, so grave, so pale. She had taken Ginny's cold hand in hers and the unbearable sweetness of her touch had made Ginny bolt out of the room, take refuge in her bed. Ginny could never tell her, couldn't even begin, couldn't even think of telling her what had happened, how she had felt Bellatrix's call so powerfully that night, how she had slunk, animal-like, down the halls, through the passageway into Honeydukes, how she had traveled blindly through the darkness to where Bellatrix was waiting for her, where she had stood so imperious, so wrenchingly beautiful, dangerous, potent, how Bellatrix had known she would be coming, had taken her by Apparition to that room, how she had—

Waves of nausea washed over Ginny as she trembled in her bed. She still didn't know exactly how it had happened, only that she had awakened from another of her chaotic, burning dreams of the woman with the singular, driving command to _go_ propelling her forward. _Are you waiting for me? Am I waiting for you?_

Bellatrix waiting for her. Bellatrix standing by the road, hooded, an apparition, blood and sex thick in the air around her. Desire and repulsion wrestling in Ginny's breast, but she went anyway.

And Hermione so patient, so loving, so good, realizing Ginny's anguish, wanting to comfort her, and Ginny unable to stand her touch, her nearness, Ginny so soiled and broken, afraid her sickness would seep through into Hermione, afraid Hermione would know.

But she did not know. She could not. Aside from her twisting, ugly, aching feelings about the girl, about the woman, the experience had been so wildly outside the realm of the possible, the conceivable, that even if Ginny had managed to tell her she knew Hermione wouldn't believe her. Wouldn't understand the words, they sounded like a foreign language even to Ginny. The shocking magnitude of her betrayal, of the Order, of herself, of Hermione, was so overwhelming that Ginny could only grasp it in fragments.

_Bella, Bella I love you_.

Ginny cried out, scratched at her arms, tried to obliterate the thought with physical pain. The undeniable truth of it boiled through her, seared her, Ginny cried out again, muffling her voice with her pillow. The tears coming fast and heavy, the pillowcase wet with them, its white fabric speckled with red where the open skin on her arms touched it.

_Hermione, save me_.

The day dawned cold and damp. Ginny stared at the lightening sky, her eyes red from crying and lack of sleep. Her roommates beginning to wake, to make the soft noises that before had tugged at Ginny's heart, their sweet sleepy girl sounds, so innocent. But Ginny was different, now, the sounds wove bitterly through her. They made her think of Hermione waking tangled in her arms, of Hermione's quiet whimpering as Ginny watched her eyes blink slowly, groggily, of Hermione's gentle half-smile when she opened them and met Ginny's, the tugging remembrance of their furtive, teasing, secretive nights together at the Burrow cracking Ginny's heart.

"Wake up, wake up Gin!" A pillow punched through the drapes, landing heavy on Ginny's knee. A round-faced girl poked her head in, wide smile and shining eyes causing the keening sadness, the yearning for simplicity to well in her again.

"I'm getting up," she managed to say, the heavy sorrow carefully hidden in her voice.

She was late to breakfast. The Gryffindor table was nearly full, and she realized with a sinking heart that the only open seat was next to Hermione, who waved her over.

"Ginny! I didn't think you would make it this morning," she said cheerfully as she patted the bench next to her. "I saved you a seat, though, and good thing!"

Ginny managed a watery grin as she slumped down beside the girl. At her right was Dean Thomas, who coughed slightly as she sat. Their relationship had ended badly, like all of them did. Ginny had gone with Dean, with the rest, had let them kiss her and touch her and do what they liked as she tried to block out Hermione, tried to fill the absence of her any way she could. But she was never able to sustain a relationship, it never felt right, it was never what she wanted. _This is what a girl's body looks like._

"Hi, Dean," Ginny said flatly. She stared at the plates, unable to conceive of eating. The nearness of Hermione made her tremble, made her feel sick. Hermione edging nearer to her carefully, subtly, the smell of her hair like wildflowers, like new grass. The breath of it drifting over Ginny, the sudden impression of their first time in the field next to the Burrow opening up in her mind painfully, she closed her eyes and tried to breathe normally.

"Ginny," Hermione whispered in her ear. The girl's warm breath made Ginny shiver, made her blood thump through her veins unbearably.

_Oh Hermione, I'm so sorry._

"Ginny, _please_ tell me what's wrong." Her concern, the love in her voice ringing clear as bell.

"I—I can't," Ginny whispered furiously. Her cheeks bloomed scarlet and tears were pooling in her eyes. "I can't, Hermione."

Hermione's eyebrows knit together, anxious. She didn't speak.

Ginny made a faint gesture of apology as she stood abruptly and left, the faces at the table puzzled, Hermione and Dean staring after her openmouthed.

She ran fast, her breath hard and tearing at her throat. A stitch opened in her side and she fell next to a stand of trees. She lay sprawled on the ground for a long time, staring at the dull gray sky, insensible to the unseasonably chilly breeze on her cheek.

"Ginny?"

_Hermione, save me._

She was there, standing over Ginny, her wavy hair fluttering in the wind. Such excruciating worry coloring her face, punctuated with love, and Ginny was sobbing again.

"Ginny, _please_." Hermione's voice imploring, desperate.

"I—I--" Ginny choked. Hermione sat next to her, stroking her hair tentatively, the delicate sweetness of her touch making Ginny cry harder. She wanted Hermione to hold her, to protect her, to save her from the dark, writhing, strangling hold Bellatrix had on her.

And she could feel it then, could feel Hermione's love like a soft white cloth winding around her, she could feel it sinking deep into her, could feel the purity of it swirling into the thick black oil of Bellatrix that pooled heavy and cold in her body.

Something broke in Ginny, she cried out and clutched at Hermione's arm, pulling her down, lifting herself up so that Hermione was cradling her. Through her tears she could see moisture glittering in Hermione's eyes, her lip trembling, confusion and fear like dark clouds passing over her face.

"Oh Hermione, I'm so sorry," she gasped.

"Sorry for what?" Hermione's voice quiet, calm, edged with anxiety.

"I'm so sorry," Ginny said again, the words crushing in her throat. "I'm so sorry, Hermione, I love you so much, I love you, I can't--"

Hermione tensed slightly beneath Ginny's body. "Shhh," she murmured. Her fingers flexed nervously around Ginny's, her breathing becoming slightly labored.

"I'm sorry," Ginny cried again. "I don't know what to do."

"Don't worry, Ginny," Hermione soothed. "Whatever it is, we'll figure it out." Her voice was trembling, she was biting her lip, fresh waves of misery crashed over Ginny as she realized what she'd said. She did, she did love Hermione, she loved Hermione with a fierce, desperate fire, but she was suddenly aware that she'd never said it aloud. The words had an indecipherable effect on the girl; a cold fear bloomed in Ginny's heart, fear that momentarily obliterated everything else, fear that Hermione didn't love her in return, not in the same way. But their nights, their clandestine days—

"Hermione," Ginny sniffled after an agonizing moment spent trying to calm herself down. "Hermione, I'm sorry I said that, I'm sorry I--"

"Just be calm, darling," Hermione whispered, pressing her warm lips to Ginny's forehead. She rocked Ginny's body gently, Ginny aware then of how tired she was, how desperately tired.

"Don't hate me," she mumbled, pitiful. "Please don't."

"I don't hate you," Hermione sighed softly. "Don't ever think I hate you."

"But--"

"Ginny, darling, it will be all right. Everything will be all right."

Fresh sobs wracked her body as she clung to Hermione, the girl rocking her gently, still stroking her hair. The awfulness of her confession constricted her throat, forced air out of her in shuddering breaths. And if Hermione didn't love her—

The image of Bellatrix flashed across Ginny's vision, Bellatrix with her gaunt, beautiful, terrible face, Bellatrix with her cruel, clever fingers, Bellatrix with her malignant laugh, her toxic, fatal allure.

_No no no_

The soft white scarf of Hermione's care fluttered precariously, Ginny was sure she could feel it beginning to unwind, to slip away. _But she hadn't said no, she hadn't said stop_.

The fragile bubble of hope glistened just in front of Ginny, it floated there, iridescent, so slight, but there, but there, and Ginny kept it as close as she could. _She hadn't said no_.

Hermione sheltered Ginny's trembling form against the growing wind, the girl holding her fiercely, hot tears staining her clothing, her skin. She sat silently, her face unreadable, her fingers working quietly through Ginny's tangled hair.

Far off, a bird screamed as it dove through the dull gray air.


	9. Chapter 9

Hermione was avoiding her again. Ginny's sorrow was being fleshed out with a quickly-growing frustration at the girl, her habit of slipping away was becoming tiresome. Ginny didn't really want to talk to her, didn't have the faintest idea of what to say, but she knew it was all up to Hermione, anyway, what _she_ would do, say.

School was almost over and aside from large gatherings she and Hermione hadn't been together, anywhere, since Hermione had come to her. Ginny had started up a new flirtation with a seventh-year Ravenclaw boy, she wasn't sure of his name, it was Mark, Martin, something like that. He had taken to following her through the hallways, trailing just behind, as though Ginny had bewitched him.

"Bloody hell, Gin, it's like you've hexed that poor bastard," Ron had said with characteristic sensitivity. Ginny made a rude gesture.

"Just because you can't even get a girl to spend more than five minutes alone with you," she sniffed. Ron's face had fallen, she hadn't even felt bad. But Ginny felt bad about very little except herself. Glimpses of Hermione ducking around corners, hurrying down hallways, filled Ginny with bitterness, confusion. If only the girl would _talk_ to her.

Summer was coming. The only thing that cheered Ginny as the school term wound down was the knowledge that she would have the summer to herself, to wander alone as she pleased, to practice her flying and some of the trickier broomwork Harry had been insisting she clean up.

_Harry_. He had kissed her. In a room full of people.

The memory didn't send chills of any kind racing down Ginny's body. She remembered it rather like having been kissed by her brother. But he had certainly grown more attentive, and Ron certainly seemed to approve of him more than Maclain or Malcolm or whatever his name was. Ginny hadn't discouraged Harry's attentions more or less than she'd discouraged any other boy's, allowing Harry to walk her to and from class, not stopping him from sending hateful glances back at Matthew—_Matthew?_—as he followed at a distance. And if Harry was deciding he wanted to be with Ginny, who was there to stop him?

Her dreams of Bellatrix had been fading in and out, and one of the only things cheering Ginny was that the woman's hold seemed to be diminishing. They still came, though far less frequently, but when she woke sweating and shaking in the night, Bellatrix's face blazing in the dark, her revulsion was beginning to overtake her desire. The part that tore at Ginny was that Hermione didn't flash across her mind as readily afterward, she felt a perverse ripping sensation when she felt the absence, when she remembered the dark tangling of her two lovers.

There was a tap on her shoulder. She spun around and—

_Hermione_.

"Hi, Ginny," the girl said nervously. Ginny tried to stop the flush from spreading across her face, and wrung her hands behind her back.

"Hi," she said flatly.

"Can we talk?"

"Sure."

Hermione led Ginny into her bedroom, heavy dread dragging at Ginny's feet. Hermione closed the door and waved her wand over the lock. She turned and faced Ginny, who was looking at the floor.

"I'm staying at the Burrow this summer," she said without preamble. Ginny's heart sank. The one thing she had been looking forward to—

"I'm staying at the Burrow and I hope I can stay in your room," Hermione continued. "I hope—I hope it won't be awkward."

A harsh, barking laugh exploded out of Ginny. "How could it not be awkward?" she demanded. "As though we're just going to sit around and have a laugh and talk about boys?"

Hermione's face went white and tears sparkled in her eyes. "Please don't, Ginny, please let me say what I have to."

"What's that, then?" she said unkindly. She crossed her arms and stared out the window. The weather had finally broken, pale sunshine filtered through the trees.

"It's—it's very difficult for me," Hermione said tentatively. "I don't quite know what to say."

"You'll get no help from me," Ginny snapped. "I'm always saying the wrong thing."

"Ginny, _please_!" Hermione cried, balling her hands into fists. "_Please_ just _listen _to me. What I'm _trying_ to say, what I'm _saying_ is—is--" she burst into tears. Ginny's haughty attitude crumbled instantly.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "Please forgive me."

"I'd forgive you," Hermione stuttered through her sobs, "if you'd let me finish a _sentence_."

Ginny silently dropped her arms, her hands open. She said nothing. She waited for Hermione's breathing to get under control.

"Whatever you have to say, just say it, Hermione. After all, I think I've set the bar for fucking things up pretty high." She forced a chuckle.

"You haven't," Hermione sighed. "That's what I want to say. You haven't done anything wrong, or said anything wrong, not _anything_. I swear to you, Ginny." And she crossed the room to Ginny, and she took Ginny's hands, and she was looking into Ginny's eyes and Ginny couldn't help it, didn't know what came over her, was unable to stop herself from leaning closer, feeling Hermione's warm breath on her cheek, Ginny could hear Hermione's heart beating impossibly quickly, the salt of her tears already sharp on Ginny's tongue and she leaned in, she leaned in and—

Hermione didn't back away. Hermione leaned in to Ginny's kiss, deflated into it, collapsed against Ginny as though all the bones had melted from her body. White lights exploded behind Ginny's eyes, her pulse raced, the burst of sweetness from Hermione's mouth flooded her, caused so many dark places to swim with dizzying brightness, she felt faint, fading in and out like a specter, the only thing grounding her was Hermione's hands, reaching up and touching her face, light, almost shy.

When the kiss was broken they stood, bodies pressed close, Ginny's arms wrapped around Hermione, the girl's head tucked at the nape of Ginny's neck.

"Of course I love you, you stupid girl," Hermione whispered, her breath hitching in her throat.

Ginny was senseless. Her mind went blank, rationality and logic blocked out by waves of sheer joy. "I'm not stupid," she said, and groaned. "Not what I meant to say," she added. "It's just . . . the only thing that would come out."

"I know the feeling," Hermione giggled. Her laugh was infectious, Ginny began to smile despite herself, and soon the two of them were cackling uncontrollably, holding each other up as peals of relieved laughter rolled through them. Ginny struggled to catch her breath, doubling over, reaching blindly in front of her. She caught the edge of the bed and sank down on it, breathing heavily. Hermione settled next to her, resting her head on Ginny's shoulder. They sat quietly for a moment, not moving, until Ginny slowly, cautiously lifted Hermione's chin and kissed her again, deeper, more softly. Hermione shifted closer to Ginny, pressing against her, her fingers sliding through Ginny's hair. She gasped lightly as Ginny's fingers drifted down her neck, tracing her collarbone, the long kiss breaking off, Ginny sucking Hermione's lip gently, running her tongue over the soft sweetness of her mouth, a trail of kisses across Hermione's jaw, Ginny taking her earlobe between her teeth, tracing the pale shell of her ear, more tiny kisses down her throat, Hermione biting her lip now, Hermione breathing harder, Hermione's fingers twisting in Ginny's hair, Hermione's eyes closing.

Ginny stood, pulling Hermione up. Very carefully, very slowly, she lifted Hermione's arms over her head, and ran her fingertips down her body, the map of the girl springing three-dimensional in her mind as her hands retraced the familiar territory. Her flags, her banners, Ginny could see them clearly.

She took the hem of Hermione's shirt between her fingertips and raised it delicately, drinking in the sight of the girl's pale, smooth flesh. The delicious anticipation, first her belly, the relief of her ribcage, the soft round of her breasts, Ginny revealed them inch by inch, studying them.

Hermione whimpered softly. Ginny pulled the girl's shirt over her head and left a trail of hot kisses down her throat, the hollow between her breasts, the lean plain of her stomach. She knelt before Hermione and gently, carefully tugged her trousers down. Ginny slid her hands up and down Hermione's legs, reveling in her closeness, her mind still swimming. _She loves me, she loves me_.

There was no blackness hiding in Ginny's body as she drifted her fingertips up the tender skin behind Hermione's knees, up the long expanse of her thigh, she was filled with light, Hermione's voice thrumming through her, whispering her name. Ginny's fingers trembled as they brushed across Hermione's knickers, feeling the heat there, the heavy sweetness pooling under her hand. Hermione gasped, her hands resting lightly on Ginny's head, and Ginny nipped gently at the white flesh of her inner thigh, reaching up to tug the elastic of Hermione's underwear down, the girl naked before her, _oh yes_, and Ginny stood and lowered Hermione to the bed.

"I love you," she whispered. Hermione smiled.

"Yes," she gasped, Ginny stroking her body, _this is what a girl's body feels like_, still delighted by the delicacy, the sweetness of a girl's skin on hers. She explored it like it was new, rediscovering her secret places, the taste of Hermione exploding on her tongue like a rush of saltwater, blooming like wildflowers. Hermione moaned as Ginny's mouth pressed against her sex, sucking soft at her, Ginny's hands slipping smooth over her flesh, the voice still cycling through her blood, Hermione's voice, obliterating the coldness of Bellatrix, flooding the shadowy, bloodstained corners of Ginny's being, making her only love, only purity.

Hermione twisted and cried out under Ginny, her mewling pleasure making Ginny's heart light. She probed her tongue deep in Hermione's body, her heat, her taste, hands running over the sheen of sweat on her skin. As the girl arched beneath her Ginny's eyes closed, her hands held tight to her undulating hips, she moved her mouth gently on Hermione's blazing flesh, slowly drawing the girl's orgasm out, making her cry out and sigh and moan beneath her.

They lay entangled on the bed, Hermione nestled against Ginny, their fingers laced. Hermione placed soft kisses along Ginny's collarbones, murmuring wordlessly. Ginny's free hand stroked Hermione's hair, her lips pressed to her forehead. After a long, glowing moment, Hermione sighed.

"Ginny, I have to talk to you."

"That doesn't sound promising," she replied, tugging gently at her hair.

"It's not."

"You didn't just say you loved me so I'd shag you, did you?"

Hermione giggled. "Of course not!"

"Then it can't possibly be that bad."

Hermione sat up. "I'm afraid it is," she whispered.

"What is it?" The light was dimming in Ginny's breast. Her eyes were wide as she searched Hermione's face, tears glistening.

"I have to go away," she said quietly.

"Where?"

"I don't know," she said, and clasped Ginny's face. "But it will most likely be quite a long time."

"Is this about . . . _him_?" Ginny asked carefully.

Hermione nodded.

"And you're going with Harry?"

"He doesn't know it yet, but yes. Ron and I."

Ginny's breath was hard in her throat. "No, Hermione. No. You can't. I love you, I _need_ you, and you're leaving, with Harry, with _Ron--_"

"I'm sorry, love," Hermione said sadly. "I don't want to, neither of us wants to--"

"But you're—and _Ron_, oh Hermione, you _can't_, please!"

"Ginny, I have to. _We_ have to."

Sobs choked in Ginny's chest. The color was draining from the room, darkness was swelling inside her. Suddenly the low, insidious voice began pulsing hard and fast through her veins. Blackness tugged at the corners of her vision. Bellatrix's cold laugh echoed faintly in her ears.

"I love you, Ginny. I love you."

Ginny was silent. Tears burned down her cheeks.

"We'll have the summer, I promise. I promise."

"Bloody lot of good your promises do," Ginny spat.

Hermione stood and began dressing, her face ashen. She didn't look at Ginny.

Ginny sat trembling on the bed, _it was so good, it was so perfect_. Bellatrix's voice grew louder in her, thick dark oil spreading through her, pooling low in her belly.

"Don't go," she whispered.

"Ginny, I _have_ to. You-Know-Who is getting stronger by the minute, the Death Eaters are everywhere, and now that things have gone all to shit at Hogwarts you can't expect me to just sit by and _wait_--_"_

She flung herself at Hermione's feet, clasping her hard around the waist. "I love you," she mumbled through her tears.

"I love you too, darling," Hermione whispered. "But I have to."

"You won't go early? You'll stay as long as you can?"

"Yes," the girl said, her voice tired and flat.

"You'll stay with me all summer?"

"Yes."

"You'll be careful? Oh Hermione, you will be careful?"

"As careful as I can, darling."

"That isn't good enough!" Ginny couldn't believe the words that were coming out of her mouth. She was as good as telling Hermione to go, to leave her, and she could feel darkness encroaching with every moment that passed.

"I know you understand this, Ginny," Hermione said after a heavy pause. "I know you understand how serious it is, how dangerous. You understand that I have to do this."

Ginny squeezed her eyes shut. Visions of Hermione hurt, killed, vanishing flashed through her mind. She could already feel the wrenching agony of her absence.

"I understand," she whispered at last.

Hermione knelt next to her, brushing the hair from her face. "Thank you, love," she said, and kissed her with such urgent, agonizing sweetness that fresh tears spilled from her eyes.

"I love you," she murmured. "I love you."


	10. Chapter 10

_She was gone, she was gone._

In her dream, Ginny was standing on the edge of a cliff, below her only blackness. Above her the sky, steel-gray, clouds dragging fast over her head. Wind, metallic and cold, pushing and pulling at her, making her unsteady. Under her feet the ground was made of flint, sharp splinters of rock that lifted in the wind and scratched at her skin. Far across the chasm she could see the opposite cliff top, a small figure there, hair tangling.

_Hermione_.

The chips of flint bit at her ankles, she looked down as small threads of blood coursed from the tiny wounds. The blood spilled down her skin, pooling crimson at her feet. She looked back at Hermione's silhouetted form, called out to her, the wind throwing her voice back in her face. The girl made no indication that she'd heard Ginny's shouts.

The iron smell of blood infiltrated the wind becoming sharp and heavy in Ginny's nose, in her mouth. Her feet were stained red, she looked down again, blood was rushing through the empty spaces between the bits of rock, making them islands in a glittering, malignant sea. It was spreading from behind her, racing forward, held trembling at the edge of the cliff.

Across from her Hermione's tiny body moved forward and plunged over the cliff.

Ginny tried to scream, but no sound came from her open mouth.

Hermione floated down, disappearing silently into the blackness.

Behind her, Ginny could feel the presence of another. The blood rushed faster, swirling around her toes, her ankles.

The wind wrapped around her, howling through the abyss, distorting as it rose to Ginny's ears, becoming low, becoming a pulsing whisper. _That voice, her voice, Bella's voice._

The rocks crackled behind her, footsteps moving toward her. Ginny didn't turn, didn't move, only stared down into the heavy black, trying to see Hermione.

Coldness on her skin, prickling at her, but heat, heat deep in her body, flushing through her, blood pouring over the ground around her fast, fast, swelling rapidly, beginning to spill off the edge, the wind rising, the voice louder, agonizingly loud, screaming her ear, she turned then, she turned, blood choking her, her skin tight, an ice sheath around a raging flame, and it was her, she was there, her black cloak rippling in the wind, loose strands of hair fluttering around her face, her face, her beautiful, terrible face, full of death, her eyes the same glistening red-black as the bloodstained stone but deep, endless, the heat burst through Ginny's body, pulling her hips toward the woman, her head thrown back, Ginny's mouth open, eyes closed, wind tearing at her, she was moving close, close, so close, she was holding out her hand, Ginny losing her balance, the flint shifting under her feet, being carried off the edge of the cliff in that rushing red torrent, Ginny slipping as she tried to find purchase on the ground, Bella holding out her hand, her face blank, hard, frozen, her eyes blazing, she held out her hand.

_You will suffer, little one_.

It was Ginny's ragged, frantic breathing that woke her, skin slick with sweat, trembling, the hard familiar ache low between her legs.

Wind whistled through her open window, stirring the curtains. Ginny untangled herself from her sheets and crossed the room to close it. Her bridesmaid dress hung, pale and ghostly, from her closet door. As Ginny glanced at it, momentarily certain it was something else, _someone_, her hands brushed the windowsill and a hard object clattered to the floor. Cold tendrils of fear filigreed her body, she bit her lip and held her breath as she knelt down and felt on the floor for the object.

She could feel it before her fingers closed around it. It let off a faint heat, it seemed to hum to Ginny, guiding her hand. As she neared it the hum clarified, became distinct.

_It was her_.

In the frenzied rush of the interrupted wedding, the Death Eaters descending in a mad horde, Ginny had been too terrified and distracted to notice who they were. And then Hermione had vanished, taking Ron and Harry with her, without a word to Ginny. She had known it would be coming, had known it would be soon; her father's information had led them all to believe an attack at the wedding was possible. Hermione and Ginny had spent the days before it in a protracted farewell, stealing moments whenever they could escape Mrs. Weasley and Fleur. But it hadn't been enough, it hadn't made Ginny ready for the awful event. And now, sequestered in the Burrow without a whisper of news, everybody on edge, everybody waiting, cold fear mixing in with their breath, Ginny felt even more lost than she had feared she would. Hermione's absence had already ripped a hole in her, the light was slowly seeping out and being replaced by empty blackness.

Over the long nights since Hermione's disappearance her dreams of Bellatrix had come roaring back with overwhelming force. They were darker, crueler than they had ever been, they were more powerful and intoxicating, Ginny wasn't prepared for their staggering clarity, their intensity. Bellatrix's voice remained with her even when she was awake, pulsing through her veins, sometimes a faint whisper, sometimes a deafening shriek. _She is nearby, she is watching me. Are you waiting for me?_

Nobody at the Burrow had noticed that she had become withdrawn and pale. Her behavior wasn't out of place, everyone in the house spent their days in silent anticipation. Mrs. Weasley tried to speak with Ginny on several occasions, but the force of Bellatrix's voice in her made the world outside a silent film. She would nod, or shake her head, and Mrs. Weasley would sigh and leave her alone. Ginny was glad of their inattention; the secret burning for Bella was growing stronger and stronger, she was afraid someone might say something that would make it come spilling out. She hadn't even told anyone about Hermione—

_Hermione_.

Already the girl was becoming vague in Ginny's mind, like she was seeing her through smoked glass. Only the sharp pain of her absence was distinct, only pain made her remember.

There were moments when Ginny was aware of her treachery, her weakness, how quickly she allowed Bellatrix to infiltrate her mind, her skin. Knives twisted in her belly as she struggled to find Hermione's face, fading, lost behind the white, malicious beauty of Bellatrix.

But more often were the times like now, like her fingertips brushing across something hard, faintly hot, far under her bed. Times when Bellatrix was the only thing in her, when Bellatrix eclipsed Ginny herself, when she became a conduit for the woman's dark power, her devouring, drowning lust.

Ginny gasped and fell back when her hand closed around the object. Heavy, blinding bolts of fire rocketed to her center, black starbursts behind her eyes. The smell of blood, of orchids pressing down on her. Her thumb sliding over the irregular surface, here rough and sharp, here polished like glass, but glowing with heat, pulsing with Bella's heady voice.

After a moment she remembered to breathe, drawing air in deep, burning lungfuls. The object sat in the palm of her hand, a blood-red stone, clear, heavy, tingling on her skin, its aura seemed to be penetrating into her veins, carrying the awful aching sensuality to every corner of her body.

_It is blood made stone_, she felt without knowing. _It is her_.

"Yes, my pretty little bitch."

_Oh god, it was her, yes, oh yes, Bella, yes, yes, Bella I love you_.

Ginny turned slowly, the air slipping visibly around her as though she were still dreaming. Her body felt warm and heavy, she was watching herself from a far-off place, her senses, her mind sublimated into a dark, glittering mist as she saw herself turn, saw herself turn, saw—

Bellatrix stepped out of the shadows.

"Very good," she purred dangerously, crossing to Ginny. "I knew you would figure it out."

"How did you—how are you--"

Bellatrix sneered, coldly amused.

"We're supposed to be safe here, nobody can get in," her voice faraway, tremulous.

"Nobody?"

"No--" Ginny's voice faltered. "That's what they said."

"Is that what they said?" Bellatrix moving ever closer to her, the air compressing between them, Ginny was swaying slightly, the stone clenched tightly in her fist. "Well," Bellatrix breathed, her face a hairsbreadth from Ginny's, her cool breath drifting across her cheek, Ginny wavering on her feet, Ginny's eyes closing, the fires exploding, raging higher in her body, "there are stronger things than spells and hexes. Surely you know that."

"How . . . how . . ." Ginny couldn't speak, couldn't form words, couldn't form thoughts.

"Don't they teach you anything at that school? No, I suppose they wouldn't," she said, icy distaste clipping her speech. "Love," she hissed, the word twisting in her mouth, "is so much more _efficient_ than a wand."

"No," Ginny whispered, "I don't."

"You do," Bellatrix said, perverse amusement lighting up her eyes. Her voice bubbled with high, mad laughter. "You_ love_ me, don't you! Filthy cunt."

"No . . . please, no."

"No?" Bellatrix's voice suddenly low, sensual. She reached up and stroked Ginny's cheek with one long white finger, dragging it down the girl's throat, then sliding her palm across her breasts, her stomach. Ginny stifled a cry as she shook, shuddered, as she came hard.

Tears burned at the corner of her eyes as Bellatrix lifted Ginny's clenched hand and slowly extended each finger. "Imagine," she breathed, "imagine how it would have felt if it had been your blood, girl."

"What--"

"But it isn't, is it?" Bella sighed, her eyes sliding closed, her lips parting as her fingertips brushed the stone, now glowing like an ember. She leaned in to Ginny's body, her head tipping back, a faint moan escaping her lips as she stroked the glassy surface. "It is _not_ yours."

"I don't . . ." The tears spilled down her cheeks. Her chest was still heaving from Bella's touch, from the pressure of the woman's body on hers, from the scent of blood, of clay that drifted heavy from her skin.

"I'm so pleased that you found my little present," Bellatrix breathed, undulating softly against Ginny. Her free hand ran up Ginny's back, Ginny arching uncontrollably against her touch, Ginny whimpering as Bella's hand clasped around hers, the stone burning her flesh, making her body ache, filling her with desire. Bella's lips drifting across Ginny's skin, whispering to her, dreamlike, her hand twisted in Ginny's hair, whispering to her about deep magic, Dark magic, whispering to her about a girl's blood tied up with her own, squeezing the stone hard in the palm of Ginny's hand, making her weak, making her want Bella so badly, so badly, still whispering to her, strange words about bonds, about blood, Bella's skin cool against her cheek, Ginny was faint against her.

"He will be pleased," Bella whispered rapturously. "He will remember the girl, he will remember our sacrifice, he will stand on your filthy body and he will reward me."

_This is how I die_.

"Our blood, our sacrifice," Bella murmured. "She calls, girl, she brought you to me."

The stone flared with searing heat. Ginny gasped and fell backwards heavily on the bed. Bellatrix did not release her hand, Bellatrix falling with her, Bellatrix's body crushing hers, Ginny's mind swam between consciousness and dizzying blackness, her blood throbbing through her veins, Bella's mouth finding hers now, devouring her, Bella's tongue flicking over her teeth, Bella's teeth biting her lip, Ginny could taste iron blooming on her tongue, Bella gasping as it flowed into her mouth, Bella pushing hard against Ginny's body, Ginny's fingertips beginning to skim Bella's waist, across her back, Ginny kissing Bella hard, sucking at her mouth, hungry groans escaping her throat, wanting Bella, needing her, bucking under her, her leg up and around Bella's body now, thrusting against her, and Bellatrix whispering through the kiss, their fingers entwined, the stone melting into their flesh, _oh yes, yes, yes, yes—_

Ginny cried out as Bellatrix thrust her hand inside her. Her knee forced between Bella's legs, she grasped tightly at her waist and pushed her down, down, rocking the woman against her. Bella's fingers twisted painfully inside her, fast and hard, Ginny tried to suppress her screams, Bella was splitting her open, was breaking her, the pain sharp, constant, mixing with dark, violent pleasure, she tasted blood, she tasted Bella, her orgasm a black supernova, the pain unbearable—

_Only pain made her remember_.

And Hermione was there, she was standing next to the bed looking down at Ginny, her face blank.

Ginny screaming, unable to stop herself.

Bellatrix writhing, her mouth at Ginny's throat.

Hermione flickered, and vanished.

Ginny fainted.

When she awoke the taste of blood was sharp on her tongue. There was a heavy pounding at her door, the sound of loud voices shouting unintelligibly. Bellatrix was gone, her body ached, a vast ache that transcended her flesh, tears streaming down her face, her palm burning, her palm bloody, a glittering stone digging into the soft skin.

"Ginny!" Her mother's voice, frantic. "Ginny, what's going on? Are you all right?"

The curtains fluttered around the open window. She choked back her sobs and stood carefully, pain coursing through her. She glanced around for something to clean the blood from her mouth, her hand, her legs. She wrapped a blanket around herself, wiping her lips with the corner and tucking the bloodstain carefully under her arm. She cracked the door. Her mother's face, eyes wide, looking more frightened than Ginny remembered. Behind Mrs. Weasley her father, ashen.

"Ginny, what's happened? You were screaming," he said, barely controlling the fear in his voice.

"Nightmare," she whispered hoarsely. "Just a nightmare."

Her parents did not look placated.

"I'm all right, honestly," she lied. "Please, it was just a bad dream."

Worry darkened their faces, but they made no move to stop her from closing the door gently.

When they were gone she sat back down on the bed, shaking. She stared at the stone still slick with her blood, glowing malevolently from her nightstand. _Throw it out the window, throw it away_, the pieces of her rational mind whispered. She reached tentatively toward it but shied away before her fingers brushed it. _She'll come back if I touch it_.

Ginny wept silently, shattered, unsure of what she wanted. The stone glimmered faintly, patient.


	11. Chapter 11

The Mudblood was far less attractive than Bellatrix would have expected. She had hair to match her blood, dull and dirty. Her face and body were thin, unremarkable. She raised an eyebrow as she studied the girl briefly. _This is what the little one would have over her_.

"Leave her to me," she said coldly. The girl's face went white. The tall redheaded boy—the little one's brother, it must be—blanched and struggled against his captors. Bellatrix turned dismissively, and the group marched to the dungeon, leaving her with the Mudblood.

"No sense wasting time on pleasantries," Bellatrix said, pointing her wand at the girl. Hermione screamed as the curse hit her. "You've never felt the Cruciatus Curse?" Bellatrix mused. "It doesn't get any easier. That _is_ the most effective part." She grasped the girl's wrist and threw her across the room. "It can get _much_ worse. Now," she circled the girl. "Tell me how you broke into my vault. Tell me about the sword."

"We don't know anything," the girl panted. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. Bellatrix watched her with detached interest. "It's a copy, just a copy. I swear."

"You swear?" Bellatrix's voice was amused. "How long do you think you'll be able to keep up the lie?" Another hot jet of red flame licked at the girl. She screamed again, louder.

"I swear--" Hermione gasped. Her voice crackled.

"Tell me about the little one," Bellatrix said, her voice suddenly interested. "Tell me about your little traitor girl."

"What?" Hermione's eyes widened in shock. "About—about _Ginny_?"

Bellatrix raised her eyebrow.

"How do you—what do you mean?"

She sighed, impatient. "I _mean_, you stupid thing, that I want you to tell me about the girl."

"How do you know about that?" Hermione struggled between confusion and pain.

"How do I _know_ about that? How do _I_ know?" Bellatrix shrieked with laughter. "Do you know who I _am_, filth? I know so much about you, about her, how you long to be with her now. And I want you to tell me."

"No," Hermione whispered. A look of terror flitted across her face, realizing she had denied Bellatrix.

"Tell me about the girl," she said, dangerous, "or tell me about the sword. It's up to you."

"But I've _told_ you," Hermione gasped. "The sword is a copy!"

Bellatrix looked away, angry. She twitched her wand and Hermione doubled over in agony. "You will tell me, bitch. One or the other."

"No," Hermione choked again. Bellatrix stopped and regarded her for a moment. She circled closer to the girl. She spoke, her voice now low, seductive.

"You will," she murmured, stroking Hermione's cheek. The girl struggled to pull away, but Bellatrix reached out and grasped her with an iron fist. "Or I will cause you pain that you have never imagined."

Hermione's lips were set in a thin white line. She shook her head.

"Very well," Bellatrix said, a hint of a smile playing at her lips. She released Hermione's wrist, instantly reaching up and twisting a handful of the girl's hair hard, forcing her head back. Hermione cried out harshly. Bellatrix bent her back and ran the tip of her wand down the girl's throat, between her breasts, over her stomach. She held it tensed just above the waist of her trousers. "You have chosen. Unwisely for you, but I'm sure I can find some way to work the truth out of you."

"Never," Hermione gasped. "I've told you the truth about the sword."

"Again with your lies," Bellatrix spat, jerking back hard on Hermione's hair. "Tell me, Mudblood, what does her mouth taste like?"

Hermione shuddered.

"Her tongue? Her skin? Her cunt? Yes, girl," she hissed venomously. "What does her cunt taste like?"

"Fuck you," Hermione growled. Bellatrix's face lit up with rage. Blinding red light wrapped around Hermione's hips. She screamed beyond sound, shaking with pain. Bellatrix ripped the girl's trousers open, the wand sliding between her legs.

"Stupid bitch," she said, malevolent fury making her voice glow red like an ember. Hermione twisted frantically, trying to escape.

"Is this what it was like, Mudblood?" Bella hissed as she jabbed her wand deep into Hermione's writhing body. She screamed, the sound ricocheting off the stone walls. Bellatrix growled, a bloodthirsty, feral purr. "_Crucio_," she murmured, her voice a sensual, melodic contour to the anguished howls. "Is this what it was like when the little one was fucking you?"

Tears made hot tracks down Hermione's cheeks. Her face twisted into a grotesque mask, contorted with agony. She tried to shake her head but her muscles had contracted with the pain and all she could manage was a stiff jerk.

"Yes? No?" Bella snarled, punctuating her words with swift thrusts of her wand. Rage had shattered the boundaries of her mind, evaporating the few remaining pools of her sanity. Bellatrix was euphoric, spiraling through roaring black chaos, consumed by her fury, swallowed by madness, there was nothing, there was everything.

Hermione screamed again. Far below one of the traitors was bellowing her name. Not the boy, not that one, the sound of that one's voice was burned into her. It was the other, the little one's brother.

"If he could only see, Mudblood," she whispered, cold, remote. "If he could only see what we are doing." The fragile glass of her memories, of her mind, had been irreparably shattered, ground into glittering dust. Her body acted independently; after years of derangement the poisons had seeped into her skin, her blood, and now her flesh worked of its own accord. Her wand forcing its way into the girl, her hand twisting hard at the girl's hair, the heavy cold smell of the girl's blood making her salivate, making her mouth curl into a predatory sneer. Her tongue pushed out, tracing her lips, she twisted the wand hard, the girl thrashing, sobs mixed with screams, Bella's eyes slid closed and she pulled her wand free, conducting a symphony of agony, raising the tempo with each flashing twitch of her wrist. The girl's screams dulled in her ears to a low moan, then singing high in swooping arpeggios, the little one's brother adding distant counterpoint.

Then, with a dense percussive crash, His voice thundered in her head. _The sword_.

"Where is it?" Bellatrix screamed, suddenly jolted out of her reverie.

Hermione tried again to shake her head, body still locked with pain.

"_Where_?" Bright lights, more tortured shrieks.

"I—I don't know!" Hermione managed to shout. "The one we had is fake!"

"So you said," Bellatrix growled. "But you're a filthy Mudblood liar, aren't you?"

"No!" Hermione screamed as Bellatrix shot a red jet of light at her chest. Far below the little one's brother roared again.

"Would she make as much protest as her blood-traitor brother?" Bellatrix said, malevolent delight in her voice. "Would your little slut lover put up such a fuss?"

Anger flared in Hermione's eyes, shining through the pain.

"I don't think she would," Bella murmured. "I think," her voice suddenly seductive, perverse. "I think that if she knew what I was doing she'd beg me to join in." Hermione's face drained of color. She stared hard into the vast emptiness of Bella's eyes. "The question, Mudblood," she continued, "is where would she want to be? Curled at my feet--" another bolt of light, another scream—"or tied up in your place? From my experience she'd take to either one about equally."

Hermione cried out, rage and anger and pain rushing from her throat in a guttural howl. She spat at Bellatrix.

"Oh, you didn't know?" she said with mock surprise. "I've put my foot in it, haven't I?"

"You're a lying bitch," Hermione gasped roughly.

"Am I?" Bellatrix's eyes flashed with dark, evil fire. "Do ask her all about it the next time you see her. Except oh, I don't think you will. Pity. Now," she said, training her wand on Hermione's heaving form, "tell me about the sword, and I won't go into detail so you can die without knowing."

"I _told_ you," Hermione cried, "we don't know anything about it! The one we have is fake, it's fake!"

Bellatrix clicked her tongue in disapproval. "Come now, Mudblood. We've had enough lies."

"I'm not lying!" Hermione shouted.

"Does she scream your name?" Bellatrix asked. "Or does she bite her lip to keep from screaming mine? You have no idea, cunt, of the things she has done for me. Isn't the curve of her pretty throat tempting? Don't you want to bite it, to taste her pure blood?"

Hermione shook with fury. Bellatrix shrieked with laughter, then suddenly stopped and stepped very close to Hermione, her lips grazing the girl's cheek. "Is it tender, is it sweet?" she purred, her breath cool on Hermione's hot skin. Her voice was high, a grotesque mockery of girlishness. "Do you _make love_? Do you _hold_ each other? Does the little one cling to you and swear to be only yours forever? Because I should tell you, Mudblood, when I had her she promised she was _mine_." Hermione jerked hard away from Bellatrix, falling heavy to the ground. "I think the next time I see her I will remind her of that promise. I shall have to punish her, of course, for breaking it. Imagine how she'll wriggle under me, how she'll beg for my touch, how she'll tell me she loves me even as I make her bleed."

Hermione stood, trembling, white. Blood streaked her skin, her clothing torn. Her fists clenched hard. She stared at Bellatrix, rage blazing in her eyes. "You evil bitch," she breathed. "I'll kill you."

"Not today, filth," Bellatrix said almost casually, lifting Hermione with a flick of her wand and slamming her hard into the wall. She crossed to the girl's limp body, knelt low to her ear. "Tell me," she breathed. "Tell me what I want to know, or I will keep you alive long enough to witness our reunion."

Hermione whimpered. Tears spilled steadily from her eyes. "It's a copy," she whispered desperately.

"_TELL ME, CUNT!_" Bellatrix roared. She slashed her wand hard through the air. Hermione flew up, crashing into the ceiling, her head hitting the stone with a dull crack. She landed heavily on the floor, blood trickling from her ear. The sound of the little one's brother howling the Mudblood's name made Bella's blood slip, humming, through her veins. She stood over the girl, wand pointed at her unconscious form.

His voice a violent crescendo. _The sword_.

"Lucius!" she shouted. Malfoy appeared in the doorway, hanging back at the sight of Bellatrix standing over the girl's prone body, both of them streaked crimson, a gleaming drop of blood forming on the tip of Bellatrix's wand. "The goblin. He can tell us."

Malfoy nodded, and backed out of the room. He returned a moment later pulling the unwilling form of the goblin behind him. Bellatrix indicated the sword, and the beast examined it carefully.

"A fake," he pronounced. Bellatrix sighed, a satisfied smirk crossing her lips. She drew her sleeve up, revealing the undulating, liquid Mark on her arm. "Take the girl," she said casually to the snarling, salivating werewolf who had appeared behind Malfoy. She felt a momentary twinge of disappointment at not holding onto the Mudblood long enough to force her to watch as she subjected the little one to the same torments, to force her to hear the little one's screams dissolving into cries of pleasure, but the Dark Lord would come soon, He would reward her for her service, He would return her to her former glory, He would allow her to sit by his side again--

Suddenly, the room was a frenzy of action. The little one's brother burst in, followed by the boy. The others were close behind. Bellatrix was pitched back into the black chaos, the scene before her dreamlike, unreal, as glass shattered, her wand flew from her hand, as her victory was ripped from her the swirling sand of her mind raged inside her, its sharp whisper rasping through her ears. His voice screaming at her, screaming wordlessly, He was anticipating her failure.

"No!" she shrieked, her voice unheeded in the uproar. Suddenly she realized the girl was unnoticed. Bellatrix jerked her up, sliding a thin silver knife from her pocket. The metal glowed faintly as she pressed it to the Mudblood's throat, glimmering softly with old magic as its tip barely pierced the skin, a shining drop of her thick, dull blood trembling on the point.

The commotion stopped abruptly, all eyes turned to her. "Drop it or the girl dies," she said to the one who held her wand. After an endless moment, the girl's barely-conscious body pressed to hers, the delicate silver knife held to her throat, the pounding of her blood deafening, there was a loud crack and she glanced up in time to see the massive chandelier plummeting toward her. She dropped the girl and darted out of the way.

Another mad rush of action, bodies spinning in and out of her line of sight, she was wrenchingly aware that she had failed her Lord again, the anguish of it ripping a chasm wide in her body. Several loud cracks as the traitors Disapparated, aided by a small grubby form she recognized as Malfoy's traitorous house-elf, and she screamed and lunged for it as it clung to the boy, vanishing just as the knife pierced its flesh.

The room was silent.

_Over_.


	12. Chapter 12

News was agonizingly spare at Aunt Muriel's. Ginny was going slightly mad being locked in the house with her family day after day, unable even to go outside for a breath of fresh air. Periodically her father would come in looking grave; his dark glances at Mrs. Weasley the only clues to anything going on outside the walls of the tiny house. Ginny pleaded with her mother for information, begged for any scrap of news about Ron, about Hermione. Mrs. Weasley didn't even bother to snap at Ginny for being a pest, she simply stared at her, exhausted, frightened, and Ginny shut her mouth obediently.

There had been nothing for weeks. Ginny spent her days dreaming of Hermione, her nights dreaming of Bellatrix. The nightmares were excruciating, twisted moonscapes of her darkest desires. She inevitably woke and saw Hermione's face for a fleeting instant, making her feel nauseous, dirty, frightened and horrified by her body's insistent thrumming.

Every morning as she made her bed under the threat of a screeching protest from Aunt Muriel, she felt under her pillow for the small red stone. As her fingers brushed its warm surface she felt tendrils of desire spinning from her fingertips, winding through her body and knotting at her core. On the occasions when she allowed herself to close her eyes the threads wove into a glittering ruby tapestry, spreading heavy over her. The shining image of Bellatrix pressing down on her, wrapping around her, made her sickness recede for a precious moment. Inevitably a knock would come at the door, or her mother's voice would call up to her from the kitchen, and the image would dissolve, the dread and anguish would come rushing back. She would release the stone, a sharp momentary pain stabbing through her.

When Ginny held the stone she felt calm. She felt protected. Not safe, not loved, but unburdened. When she held the stone, Bellatrix was there, commanding her.

When Ginny dropped the stone she felt ill, felt sordid. When she dropped the stone she immediately felt Hermione flooding her, the warm golden presence of the girl amplifying the cold blackness that Bellatrix left in her. The crashing conflict in her heart grew daily; she _knew_ she must remain true to Hermione, the girl she loved, who loved her, yet whose absence dragged on, made her remote. Bella was always present, the stone a constant reminder of her malicious laugh, her cool fingers, her deep liquid eyes. Ginny had a photograph of Hermione to make her remember, the girl small at the edge of the frame, waving up at her, grinning.

_It isn't your happiness that I miss_, she thought, and immediately chastised herself. Happiness was the only thing keeping anyone sane, at least the _idea_ of it, the _memory_ of it. Yet when she looked at the photograph she had to force herself to feel anything. The smiling girl wasn't her Hermione, wasn't the girl who cried out in ecstasy, who whispered sweetly in her ear as they lay sprawled, naked, glistening with sweat.

It was the sweetness that made Ginny feel so awful. The purity of Hermione's love, the sheer unconditional adoration of it. _If she wasn't so devoted_—but no, it was not devotion. Ginny knew devotion, knew the aching, yearning, drowning sensation of it. _Bella. Bella, I love you_.

The times did not encourage sweetness, did not make room for charming, gentle love. They had changed, people were tense, frightened, every moment bearing the potential for utter destruction. Ginny had changed with them. She was no longer awkward, or shy, or fumbling. She was hardening inside, both polished and roughened by the constant tumbling of events. The image of Hermione beaming up at her no longer made her weak, made her melt. Instead the vaguest tugging of annoyance crept in through the darker passages of her mind, worried at her, wore down her tolerances. Ginny couldn't respond to gentleness, to dreamy romance, it didn't seem right any more. But Bellatrix—

Ginny shuddered when she remembered the way she felt when Bella touched her, when Bella's mouth, her tongue traced the most secret parts of her flesh, when Bella hissed at her, called her names, when Bella fucked her—

She clutched at the stone, squeezing it, trying to push it through her skin into her body. _Oh Bella, yes_.

It was so much easier to imagine herself under Bellatrix's command, not having to think or act, only having to feel, to obey. Ginny was so tired, the constant pressure of the world around her, having nobody to look to for answers, the total sublimation to Bella's will was a welcome relief, it was simple, she did as she was told. Nobody in her daily life had the energy to direct her, to give her tasks, to keep her busy. She drove herself mad with wondering, worrying, her only refuge was the secret hours in her room, running her fingers over the stone, the stone over her body, biting her lip to keep her screams muffled, biting her lip to taste the blood.

And then—

Mr. Weasley came home one night looking very distraught. He pulled Mrs. Weasley up by the arm and led her into the back room, closing the door tightly behind them. Ginny ran up and pressed her ear to the wood, just making out the low murmur of her father charming the doors for silence, and then nothing.

She kicked the door in frustration, not caring if her parents heard it.

After a few minutes, the door swung open. Her father stood in the doorway, his face ashen. Her mother was collapsed in a heap on the armchair near the fire, her face hidden in her arm. She was shaking.

"Come in, Puddle," her father said, his voice tight. Ginny's heart dropped like a stone.

"What is it?" she whispered, edging into the room. Her father indicated an empty chair. Ginny shook her head. "What?"

"Ginny, sweetheart--" he began, but was interrupted by a choked cry from Mrs. Weasley who rushed to Ginny, smothering her in a tight embrace.

"Oh my baby," she sobbed. "My darling girl."

"Mum, what is it?" Ginny was panicking. She had seen her mother cry, many times, but never like this. And her father's eyes, she had never seen tears glistening in them before. She could feel the blood draining from her face.

"They've found Ron and Harry and Hermione," her father said.

"Who?" she whispered. She didn't need to ask; she already knew.

"The Death Eaters," he replied. Mrs. Weasley broke into louder sobs, clutching harder at Ginny. "Just a few hours ago. We don't know much."

"Oh Dad--" she gasped. _Hermione_.

"They were discovered in the forest. A group of Death Eaters have taken them to Malfoy Manor."

_Bellatrix_.

"But—but what's--" she didn't know what to say, what to ask.

"That's all we know," he said, his voice dark and tinged with heavy anguish.

"We shouldn't have told you," Mrs. Weasley cried. "We shouldn't have said anything."

"She had a right to know, Molly," Mr. Weasley said, trying to regain his composure. "It's her brother."

"And my best friend," Ginny added dully. _My love_.

"But Arthur, when we know nothing--"

"Molly," he said, his voice suddenly much harder. "Molly, all we can do is wait."

"We've _been_ waiting, Arthur!" she shrieked, releasing Ginny who sank into the armchair. "We've been waiting for _months_, we've had absolutely no news, and now, when the Order finally _does_ find something out, it's _this_!" Her face was blotched red from tears and anger. Mr. Weasley stood unmoving, his face blank. "They're just _children_, Arthur! And now, and now, those bloody _people_ have them! Oh Ron--" she crumpled to the floor. Mr. Weasley knelt beside her, cradling her.

"I know, love," he murmured. "I know."

Ginny began to tremble violently. Her nausea rose swiftly and she bolted out of the room, making it to the bathroom in just enough time. She vomited twice, then curled up on the cold stone floor.

_Hermione_.

And Bellatrix had her, Bella would never pass up the opportunity to take Hermione, to—

Ginny's thoughts ran fast and thick through her mind. Bellatrix knew about Hermione, she had to know, she had to know about her and Hermione, certainly knew about their relationship, Hermione would never tell, would never give Bellatrix the opportunity, would never—

_It was her fault. Bellatrix would kill Hermione, had likely already killed her, it was her fault, it was her fault, if she hadn't kissed Hermione that day in the bathroom, if she hadn't been so stupid and selfish and hadn't tried to make Hermione her own, if she hadn't let her go, oh, if she hadn't let her go, if she had refused—_

And Bellatrix. Ginny curled small on the floor, rocking slightly, then harder, her head hitting the stone with a dull thud, back and forth, she was growing dizzy, Ginny slamming her head against the stone floor, trying to break the picture of Bellatrix that hid there, malicious, cruel, Ginny tried to break it, to break her, to eradicate her, to shatter the images, grind them into dust.

The harder she hit her head the sharper Bellatrix's features became. Her laugh, low and cold then spiraling higher and higher, a piercing scream, and Ginny was screaming, she was screaming, she was trying to break herself, to break Bellatrix, her head slamming hard against the stone floor, and there was blackness.

When Ginny woke she was in her bed, her parents sitting next to her, pale and watery.

"Mum?" she murmured. Mrs. Weasley reached out and took her hand. Her face gradually came into focus, a wide smile creasing it.

"They're safe, dearest," she whispered. "They're all safe. They Apparated to Shell Cottage, we've just had news from Bill."

"Hermione?" she mumbled thickly. Her head ached.

"She'll be all right," her father said quickly.

"What happened?"

"No," Mrs. Weasley said firmly. "They're safe, that's all that matters."

"I want to know, please," Ginny said softly. "Please."

Her parents exchanged a long, heavy look.

"Ron and Harry are both a little banged up, but nothing too serious. Hermione's a bit worse, Puddle. Bellatrix Lestrange got her," her father said finally. "Tried to get information out of her."

Ginny tried to sit up. "I have to—we have to go!" she cried. Pain stabbed through her head, the world swam in front of her and her stomach lurched.

"You're staying here," her mother said, pushing her gently back down.

"No, but—but we have to go! We have to see them, to make sure they're all right!"

"Bill said they'll be fine. We have to trust him." Her mother's tone brooked no argument.

"I know you're worried, Ginny," Mr. Weasley said, more gently. "But you and your mother _must _stay here. They don't know where you are as long as you're here."

"I don't care!" Ginny moaned. "I don't care, I shouldn't be here, safe, when they're out there, when _she's _out there--" she stopped abruptly.

Her parents exchanged another look. There was a long pause.

"Ginny," her mother said, her voice softer than Ginny could remember ever hearing. "We know you're worried. We're worried too. But darling, there's nothing you could do, even if you _were_ with them."

Hot tears stung at Ginny's eyes. Her head throbbed unbelievably. _If I hadn't let her go—_

"I could be there," she mumbled.

Her parents looked down on her, tenderness and worry crossing their faces. Her mother's eyes were rapidly filling with tears.

"Molly," Mr. Weasley said quietly, "could you make us some tea?"

Mrs. Weasley looked as though she were going to protest, but thought better of it. She wiped her eyes quickly. "Yes, love. I'll bring something for your head, dear," she said to Ginny, and left the room.

"Oh Dad," Ginny said, her voice trembling, breaking. Tears rolled down her cheeks, the pain in her head excruciating. Mr. Weasley sat on the edge of the bed and wiped her tears away with his thumb.

"I know, Puddle," he said gently. "We're all worried."

"It's not just that--" she breathed deeply, trying to calm herself. She didn't want to tell him, didn't want to say, but perhaps it would convince him to let her go to Shell Cottage, to go to Hermione, perhaps he would let her go to Hermione if he knew.

Mr. Weasley quieted her with a raised finger. "I know," he said simply.

"You do?" Ginny hiccupped.

He nodded quietly. "Well, I suspected, rather."

"Oh," she whispered.

"Don't worry about it, darling," he said, continuing to stroke her cheek with his thumb. "I promise you that you can see her the very moment it's possible."

"You're not upset?" she asked, and immediately felt stupid and ashamed for worrying about herself at all.

Mr. Weasley gave her a crooked smile. "I hope you don't mind, Puddle, but I've got rather a lot on my mind." He tweaked her nose. "Your mum's the one to watch out for. She was always up in arms about the Quidditch."

Ginny gave a wan smile. "You promise they'll be all right?"

"I promise, love," he said and bent low to kiss her forehead. Mrs. Weasley bustled back into the room carrying a tea tray.

"Drink this, Ginny dear. It'll make your head feel much better." She held out a cup. Ginny took it and drank, the liquid scalding her throat but the pain in her head dissolving instantly.

"Would you mind terribly if I tried to sleep?" she asked, still half-ashamed.

"Not at all, dear," her mother said kindly. "Come along, Arthur. We've got to try to get ahold of Remus." They left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Ginny relaxed gingerly on her pillow. Her head was still tender where she had hit it against the floor, but the dreadful pounding had stopped. _She was all right. She would be all right_.

She reached under her pillow, fingers closing around the stone. The low familiar warmth thrummed up her arm, but did not reach her core. She held it aloft, examining it as it glittered in the faint light. She pushed herself carefully off the bed, tiptoed as quietly as she could to the window, opened it a crack and flung the stone out into the night.


	13. Chapter 13

Ginny was trapped.

All around her she could hear the muffled sounds of battle, stifled cries and dull cracks, heavy thuds as bodies and spells crashed into the thick stone walls holding her prisoner. Occasionally dust and bits of rock came sifting down from the ceiling; the room was so quiet she could hear them settling on the cold floor.

She stood close to Tonks, the woman's hair blazing red. Ginny held her wand aloft, aimed at the doors. The noise of battle drew closer, the pounding and screaming becoming more distinct. The crashes were sending more debris spiraling down on her head, spidery cracks were beginning to form on the walls.

She was more terrified than she had ever been, but her fear was so intense it transcended reason, blanked out any thought of flight. She had crossed over from being so afraid she couldn't move into being so afraid it was all she could think of doing. She wanted to be fighting alongside the Order, wanted to be defending Hogwarts, defending life as she and everyone she cared about knew it. She wanted to find Hermione. She _needed_ to find her; knowing she was so close but not being able to be near her, to protect her, was far more intense than the numbing fear.

The days leading up to the battle had been excruciating. Ginny had received few updates about Hermione's condition, only that it was improving, that she and Ron and Harry had left Shell Cottage for parts unknown. She hadn't discovered anything else about Bellatrix's interrogation; her fevered imagination had filled in the yawning blanks with every terrible possibility and still she knew the truth must be far worse. Violent images of Bellatrix torturing Hermione, making her suffer, making her scream swam through her head constantly. Her father had been especially gentle with her, careful to couch his dark pronouncements in the few scraps of good news he had been able to cull from the Order. Mrs. Weasley had resumed her ordinary brusque, bustling personality though Ginny could see through her attempts at normalcy to the barely-repressed anxiety hiding just beneath the surface. They hadn't spoken much since the first news, the silence both tense and focused.

Ginny still wasn't sure if her mother knew the truth. She trusted her father to maintain their secret, if it was one; he had been the closest thing Ginny had to a confidante since Bill had left. Although he was several years older than her, nearly an adult by the time she was born, he had always been the one she felt the closest to. She would have told Bill, she knew he would understand.

Ginny understood perfectly now. Her love for Hermione was overwhelming, the desire to be near her, to safeguard her, was so strong it caused a constant dull ache in her chest. The memory of Bellatrix only made her feel sick, dirty. She shuddered when she remembered her complicity, she forced herself to replay the scenes in her mind _Bellatrix binding her, Bellatrix biting her, Bellatrix making her scream_ until her throat was a hard knot and her breathing became labored and shallow. She forced herself to watch it unfold in her mind over and over, punishing herself for betraying Hermione.

A deafening crack just outside made the walls groan, the buttresses in the ceiling lurched ominously. Tonks grabbed her and tucked her under her arm, shielding her head. Suddenly the door swung open and Harry stood, looking deceptively still, framed against the furious fighting going on behind him. She could hardly hear him but he was indicating that she had to leave, without a second thought she bolted out the door and into the fray.

Action exploded around her. Spells flew through the air, striking fighters seemingly at random. Ginny gripped her wand and tried to get her bearings as quickly as she could. She wove through the fighting, bolts of light sizzling past her. She searched for Hermione, darting around bodies falling, weapons crashing all around her.

_Hermione_.

Someone grabbed her, pulling her aside roughly as a hot flash screamed past her. She spun blindly, firing a jinx into the crowd below. She felt a momentary flush of pride as a group of Death Eaters fell, but quickly resumed her search.

The battle raged for what felt like an eternity, and no sign of Hermione. She thought she glimpsed Bellatrix once, thought she saw the woman's dark eyes piercing her even through the crush of bodies. Cold revulsion spilled through her, she aimed her wand at the spot and fired off a curse, the red light streaking through the air. When she looked at the spot a crumpled body lay twisted on the ground and for a moment she felt dizzying exhilaration, she had done it, she had defeated Bellatrix, she had avenged herself, had avenged Hermione. But someone tripped over the body, pulling the hood down, it was not her.

Rage flooded her. She had wanted so badly for it to be Bellatrix, wanted to kill her, wanted to do it herself. She felt the lust for death blooming dark inside her, could taste it like blood in her mouth. She wanted to kill.

Ginny had never felt it before. It was surprisingly similar to the way she felt during a Quidditch match, the same mix of adrenaline and clarity of purpose. But this—

She whirled around, firing curses into the crowd. She no longer cared who she hit; they all had the same beautiful, poisonous face, the sounds of battle were twisting into a low laugh, every scream became Hermione's, she wanted to hurt someone, she wanted to kill—

And then it stopped. She was in a classroom, it was dark and she couldn't make out precisely where.

_Hermione_.

She stood, shaking with exhaustion and anger. Blood ran down the side of her face but she didn't look seriously hurt, Ginny gasped, she was so close, finally, finally, after so many months of waiting, now she was there, in the flesh, Ginny couldn't stop the rush of blood from flooding her body, couldn't help the tingling excitement that crackled through her veins as she stared at the girl across the room.

She was on the point of bolting to her, flinging her arms around her, pulling her close, when she noticed the mass of people had become a river flowing toward the main doors to the castle. Nobody thought, nobody moved for a moment, and then they all turned and joined the rush outside.

A cloaked figure lay motionless, a hand flung limp on the ground. It was Harry.

Ginny screamed, echoing Hermione's cry. He was dead. He was dead, it was over. All Ginny could think of was Hermione, couldn't think of anything else, the destruction of the universe was wholly encompassed by the thought that now Hermione stood no chance, she would die, she would die, _it was her fault, if she hadn't let her go, if she had refused_

She rushed to him collapsing on the ground next to Harry's body. Hermione fell next to her, Ginny could feel the warmth of her body, could smell her skin sharp with sweat and blood, but still sweet. Hermione's face was pale, her skin cold as marble as Ginny's fingers brushed against hers.

_She was back in the Burrow, she was touching Hermione's hand, she was in the bathroom, Hermione pausing for a fraction of a second at the sight of her body, this is what a girl's body looks like, she was walking across the cold tile floor and pressing her lips to Hermione's briefly, so briefly, she was there in the field, exploring Hermione's flesh, this is what a girl's body feels like, she was in her bed, she was tasting her_

Hermione let out a shuddering moan as she reached a trembling hand toward Harry's face. Ginny's heart twisted hard in her breast as she looked at the two of them, the girl she loved, the boy who loved her, and she felt a great cracking sadness splitting her in two. She had a momentary flash of hope that Hermione's death would be swift. She knew her own would be drawn out, a blood traitor, she knew it would be Bellatrix.

At that moment a cold laugh filtered through the air. _It was her_. Ginny jerked her head up and saw Bellatrix lurking at the edge of the woods ringing the castle. A group of Death Eaters were arranged in a semicircle around a tall, commanding figure. Him. Bellatrix stood by his side, a perverse grin twisting her face, her eyes blazing.

Bloodlust erupted in Ginny again, it was all she could do to prevent herself from seizing her wand and killing the woman where she stood. Hermione stiffened slightly at the sound, shame and rage flared through Ginny as images flashed unbidden across her mind, the same horrible images of Bellatrix torturing Hermione, mingled now with acid memories of Bellatrix's hands on her own body.

The world exploded again.

Ginny ran blindly up the steps back into the entrance of the castle. She didn't know why she was still fighting, why any of them were still fighting, but she sent curses flying through the crowd with numb dissociation from the action around her. She had lost sight of Hermione again, but there, just there, across the Hall—

Ginny stopped dead. Bellatrix froze in her tracks, a wide, feral smile cracking across her drawn face. Their eyes locked, a hot bolt of fear and rage twisting in Ginny's stomach as Bellatrix raised her wand, Ginny could see the venomous green light pulsing through the air in slow motion, could see her death soaring toward her, the low heavy laugh ringing in her ears, the taste of blood sharp on her tongue, the green light snaking toward her and in an instant she ducked out of the way, the heat of the curse searing her skin. The smell of burning hair filled her nose. And then—

Mrs. Weasley came from nowhere, blazing with such fury Ginny thought absurdly that she might burst into flames. Instead of running, Bellatrix cackled high and malicious, the crowd parting as they faced each other. Ginny was rooted to the ground, her body frozen, watching helpless as her mother dueled with Bellatrix.

The room was silent save for the screams of spells as they shot through the air, the loud cracking of the paving stones, the high taunts of Bellatrix as she danced around the curses. And then—

A ribbon of green light brighter than anything Ginny had ever seen wrapped around Bellatrix's body. The woman stood for a moment, openmouthed, and fell to the ground.

At that instant something dark and terrible roared in Ginny's head, a piercing shriek of rage and pain, swelling, spiraling, Ginny's blood burned, she felt as though her body were trying to pull itself into pieces, as though something were trying to force its way out through her skin, and as she watched Bellatrix fall light exploded in her brain, flooding her.

_It was over_.

And then it was over.

The deafening roar of the crowd blocked out any other sound. The dawn spread over the horizon, blanketing the world in a golden glow. Ginny found Harry, worked through the throng and threw her arms around him, kissing him on the cheek, squeezing him as hard as she could. He looked at her, an exhausted smile on his face. She kissed him again and let go, determined to get to Hermione.

The girl was standing nearby, though Ginny had to search for her in the crowd. She was pale, drooping with fatigue, but smiling. Ginny pushed through the people and stood by her side, waiting for Hermione to notice her.

She turned a moment later and saw Ginny. Her mouth opened, her eyes filled with tears.

Ginny took her hand and squeezed it hard, then reached up and wiped a streak of blood from her cheek. Neither of them said anything; the battle had drained them both of the capacity to speak.

Hermione's hand clasped over Ginny's, still pressed to her cheek. They exchanged a long look, then made their way through the crowd to a stand of trees.

After several silent minutes, Ginny spoke.

"Hermione, I love you." It was the only thing she could think to say.

"Oh Ginny," Hermione cried weakly, throwing her arms around her. "Oh, Ginny." Hot tears fell on Ginny's skin, she felt her own pricking the corners of her eyes. They held each other silently for a moment.

"Are you all right?" Ginny whispered. Hermione nodded, swallowing hard. "I mean--"

"I know what you mean," Hermione said quietly. "Was it true?"

Ginny didn't know what to say. She didn't want to destroy the moment, didn't want to turn it into something ugly and painful. She nodded slightly, her eyes downcast, teardrops pooling on her hands.

"And now?"

Ginny tried to speak, her throat burning. "I love you," she managed to say. "I only love you, Hermione, so much, I didn't know what I was doing, oh Hermione, I'm so sorry."

Hermione was silent. She looked out across the landscape, the rosy dawn fading into bright day. She bit her lip.

"She said terrible things," she whispered finally. "Ugly things."

"I know," Ginny said.

"That was the worst part, hearing those things, even_ imagining_ that they might be true. Everything else was just—was just pain."

"I know."

"And then imagining them—after. It was the worst thing she could have done, and she knew it, Ginny. She knew what it would do. What it did."

"Can you forgive me?" Ginny asked, her voice trembling. Hermione sat quietly again, picking at the grass. She looked as though she were about to speak several times, but said nothing. "Hermione?" Ginny reached out tentatively, but Hermione shifted slightly away from her fingers. Ginny's heart twisted excruciatingly in her chest.

"I don't know," she said at last. Ginny jerked away, nausea rolling through her. "It's just—I'll never be able to get those things out of my head."

Ginny didn't speak. She curled up tightly on the grass, facing away from Hermione. Silent sobs wracked her body. After what seemed an eternity she felt the gentle pressure of Hermione's hand on her back.

"Ginny?" she said softly. "Can I ask you a question?" Ginny nodded, struggling to breathe through her sobs. "What happened—what happened when she died? Did you feel anything?"

Ginny took a moment to steady her breath, swallowing her tears. She breathed raggedly. "Yes," she whispered. "It felt—it felt like something was ripped out of me. Something awful, and she was dead, and it was gone, and suddenly I felt so light."

Hermione didn't speak. She settled on the ground behind Ginny, pressing her body against Ginny's, her arms sliding around her waist. She nestled her head in the crook of Ginny's neck, her breath warm and soft against her skin. "So she's really gone," Hermione said. "Good."

They lay on the grass for a long time. Ginny was completely numb, the emotion drained out of her.

Hermione stood and swept bits of brush from her clothes. "We should go back," she said.

Ginny sat up. "Hermione?"

Hermione knelt next to her, cupping her face in her hands. "It will take time, love," she whispered. "But you know the best part?"

Ginny shook her head, sniffling.

"We've got loads of it now." She leaned forward and kissed Ginny softly. Starbursts exploded behind Ginny's eyes, her body felt warm, heavy, the sweetness of Hermione's mouth flooding through her.

Hermione pulled her up. "Come on," she said, smiling gently. "I'm sure there's food."

"I'm starving," Ginny said with a wan grin.

"And you could do with a bath," Hermione replied as playfully as she could imagine. "Plus, your mum is probably worried sick."

Ginny threw her arms around Hermione and held her tightly for a moment as the sunlight grew stronger, cascading over them in golden waves. It was over. It was beginning.


End file.
